


Trust me

by DoraTLG



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Asphyxiation, BDSM, Blowjobs, Bond is not perfect either, Bondage, Boot Worship, Canon Typical Violence, Exhibitionism, Fingering, Kneeling, M/M, Masturbation, Mild CBT, Mutual Pining, Ordering Around, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Voyeurism, and then a lot of explicit sex, breaking a sub in the good way, erotic internet chat, injured Bond, it's actually a love story, mentions of watersports, q is an awkward potato like us, spoilers but Q cares for him, trust me - I'm an improviser
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-06-08 00:04:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6830830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoraTLG/pseuds/DoraTLG
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trust is one of the banned words in espionage. Trusting people is what gets you killed. Bond has learned this the hard way, while Q had the decency to always know without any major cock ups. But there are things you can't do without trust - like let someone tie you down and do what they want to you, even if that is what you want more than anything. So Q lives in his little world of celibacy until his friend creates him a profile on a BDSM online dating site.<br/>And until Q becomes an online sub of a total stranger.<br/>At least that's what he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Only_1_Truth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Only_1_Truth/gifts).



> Truth wanted to post a fic on her birthday but couldn't. I wanted to first finish this and then start posting, but this changes the situation. Happy Birthday, Maia :)

Q's day couldn't have been worse.

It wasn't about the cocked up mission in Tunis that caused the Q Branch to lose seven million pounds worth of equipment, not about the lecture he had from M about something that not only wasn't his fault, but wasn't even his job, it wasn't even about 005 bleeding on his computer after she came back from Monaco. It was about the fact that the cafeteria didn't have his favourite cupcakes.

Alright, it might have been more about those first things, but the cupcake has done him. He's been up for the last 38 hours and R confiscated his coffee four hours ago to make him go home, because Q had more overtime than a single father on minimum wage, and his rage outbursts were scaring the techies. Right now he was trying to get one of them to run to Costa to buy him a gingerbread muffin.

“Sir, the security will try to cut it open just to find a bomb,” the poor techie, Simon, was trying to explain. He might have been right – the security has increased in the past month thanks to the international ISIS attacks, and now they were scanned on arrival every morning and every evening. Before at least phones were allowed into the building, now only paperwork and lunches were safe from the elimination process.

“Then bring me the bloody crumbs!” Q shouted very rationally. Suddenly, a hand landed on his shoulder. He turned to R, ready to defend himself.

“Go home, Q. M's orders,” she said. He winced. When M wanted him out, that usually meant he's really crossed his limits. He nodded.

“You can get that muffin by yourself. With a nice cup of hot chocolate, what do you say? Just no coffee,” she handed him his bag and was leading him out of the branch. He just nodded tiredly.

“M's giving you a day off. Maybe sleep some. Have a lazy day in.”

He just kept nodding until she pushed him through the security out of the building. Then he, on autopilot, headed to the tube and home.

When he found himself in his flat, his tired mind finally caught up with him and he remembered that he really did want to go to Costa. He found his phone, dialled his best friend's number, and invited him in while filling his cats' bowls with cat food.

“And John? Bring me a gingerbread muffin from Costa. And a strong cup of coffee.”

 

The bell rang and he jumped up from his nap on the couch, which startled Myrtle on his lap. The grey cat jumped down, offended by his terrible manners, and disappeared in his bedroom. It took him a second to realize what's going on before he went to open the door. John stormed in like a wave of energy that made Q's stomach turn.

“Hey mate!”

“Fine, you?”

“Good, thanks. Here's your muffin. Why don't you make your own coffee?”

Q followed him into the flat and before he could even register all the movement, John was sitting on his couch with his legs up on the table and a remote in his hand.

“Tired. Did you bring it?”

“I drank it.”

Q sat next to him and took the muffin from the table where it was resting right next to John's feet.

“Like you need caffeine,” he mumbled.

“I didn't sleep well last night!” John explained. The TV was on now. Q's intended mumbling about how he didn't sleep at all caught in his brain when he saw that the film that was on was Secretary.

“Oh no, turn it off,” he bit into the muffin. Sweet, sweet glory.

“Why? I love this film!” John looked at him and grinned. “Having blue balls, are we?”

“No,” Q knew how fake that sounded. John just chuckled. 

“You need to get laid, my friend. Did you check out that website I gave you?”

Q hummed something that might have been yes, might have been no, and might have been “don't pet me now, I just ate”.

“Did you sign up?”

Q ate some more, ignoring him.

“You need to sign up! God, Pete, you are worse than my grandma! I bet she has more sex than you.”

“It's not about the sex.”

“Oh, so you had vanilla sex?” John raises his eyebrows in doubt.

“Don't be ridiculous,” Q snarls. He wishes he had more muffins. He doubts John would go buy him more.

“At this rate, maybe even vanilla would be more preferable than nothing.”

“Can we talk about this later?” Q almost begs. He is losing the energy to chew. “I've had a really hard day. Don't need you to make it even worse.”

“No, we're gonna do this now. I'll make you coffee.”

He gets up and goes to the kitchen. Q nods off again.

 

 

Half an hour later, Q is half way through his cup and John is sitting next to him with Q's laptop on the table, creating a profile. He told Q about the website three weeks ago and Q went there a week after, just to see what it was all about. He was curious, of course he was curious, but he was also extremely uptight about these things. He didn't have much respect for people who searched for partners on the internet. He considered them either too desperate. He'd rather be too desperate without trying to solve his problems, thank you very much. But arguments like these were just an excuse to close the tab after seeing hot Doms looking for subs like him, because... well. Because there were reasons why Q was single and frustrated, and if they could be solved with one website, he wouldn't have been single and frustrated in the firs place.

“What are you looking for?” John asked idly, typing into the columns.

“Peace from you,” Q answered gravely.

“Both men and women, right?”

“Anyone. I don't care.”

John just shook his head.

“Anyone, alright. Hard limits?”

Q sighed. He hated talking about it. They used to, with John, before Sarah left him, but after... he grew more and more apprehensive towards the whole thing.

Sarah was his Domme for six years. They met at the uni and Q was extremely happy with her. He only slept with a handful of people before her and it was all vanilla and unsatisfactory. Sarah changed his life. He felt like himself with her. And then she left him for another and... well let's say Q didn't feel that good about his submissive nature after.

He tried to date other Doms, but that quickly backfired. He didn't trust them. Letting a strange person tie him up became a nightmare, even more so after he joined MI6. So he lived in a world of constant frustration and gave himself fully to his work. Sometimes, like today, too fully.

John, on the other hand, was a trusting, confident sub who never had a problem find a partner, either for the night or for several months. Q envied him. Even now, talking about kinks and limits, John was as comfortable as one can be in his sexuality, and in Q's sexuality for that matter, while Q felt like one of those lights from football stadiums were lit on his secret stash of porn.

When his profile was done, John took out his phone and wanted to take a picture that would be up to date, but Q stopped him, saying he doesn't want anyone from work finding a photo of him on such a website, a code for If the Quartermaster of MI6 had a public photo on a BDSM server, England WOULD be in a very high risk of falling.

“In that case take your shirt off,” John said.

“No,” Q shook his head resolutely. He is not one of those... no. He can't do it. He can't just have a one night stand with someone he doesn't know.

“Don't be a child. Look,” John looked him in the eyes, going serious. “You don't have to meet any of them. Just have a little chat, flirt a bit, there are no consequences to internet chat, you can leave the messages be any time and no one will find you to ask why. But no one will message you in the first place if I take a photo of your bloody shirt, so take it off, alright?”

Q immediately thought of all the someone COULD find you on the internet based on just a few pieces of information, but then had to admit that normal people probably didn't do that even if they knew how. So he stood up with a sigh and unbuttoned his navy blue shirt.

“OK, this looks good,” John was taking the pictures one after the other as if he were a professional photographer now. “Wait, I know what you need! Do you have rope?”

“You have to be kidding me.”

But John was already moving in the direction of the bedroom.

Q isn't quick enough to stop him from rummaging through his drawers, so he gives up before his friend turns his whole bedroom upside down.

“The night stand,” he tells him. Three seconds after, John breaks into a wide grin at the sight of Q's open bedside table. Q blushes violently.

“This must look so good on you,” John says while taking out a bright red collar. Q's face turns almost its colour. John doesn't find rope, but he does find a set of handcuffs which by his humble opinion look kinda weird, which Q translates into I have never seen actual handcuffs, and he doesn't tell him that these are the real thing. He is mostly grateful when John settles on simplicity and doesn't take apart his whole collection. He then makes him put on the collar and snaps the handcuffs on in front of his body, and takes several pictures.

“You'll be so popular,” he says when he's uploading one of them into the server. “Aaaand we're running! Great, time to choose our first contestants. So living in London, age?”

“I really don't care. And they don't need to live in London if I don't have to meet them.”

“But what if you want to? And of course you care, Pete,” he leans in. “You care.”

Q has to fight himself for a while, but then sighs and gives in. He leans nearer the computer.

“No older than fifty. Older than thirty.“

“So men first?” John automatically puts it in. Q can't blame him, he already confessed that Sarah was a lucky coincidence and that he prefers men. The society has somehow made him aware of this fact, though, and now he feels like he needs to earn his bisexuality. Basically, society has made him stupid and he rationally knows this.

“Dominant, living near central London... only with a photo,” John finishes.

“Shallow,” Q jokes. John just shrugs.

“I am looking for someone to sleep with, not a personality. I have friends for that. Like you,” he smiles at Q sweetly and Q kicks him. They snicker.

“I should be way drunker for this,” Q says. To be fair, a pint would probably do him now. But it WOULD make him more likely to flirt with people he can't face. How pathetic, he can't even talk to people on the internet without alcohol.

“Oh mama!” John's whistle shakes him from falling asleep again. He rubs his eyes and looks at the screen. The website is black with profiles in neat two rows with quite big photos and basic information on the sites. He quickly skims them, but can't find what made John so excited. They always had a different taste though.

“Look at this one,” John clicks on an image and a profile pops out. It's a body of a man, a well sculpted man, Q has to admit. Actually, quite the Adonis, sitting leisurely on a couch and still showing muscles, with the photo ending just beneath the rim of his sweats, showing a beautiful patch of pubic hair. The profile of WhatIsWrongWithMe (seriously?) reads Male, Dominant, 46, London, single, looking for a man or a woman. No deal breaker in his likes, like scat or infant play, which Q would just back off from. And from light or hard sex, he chose hard. Which Q very much approves of.

“Hot, isn't he?” John asks. Q shrugs.

“I mean, yeah, I guess, but I need to see his face. Anyone can have a body like that.”

“Not anyone. Oh god, you and your... nevermind.”

And before Q realizes what's he doing, John has sent the man a message. Q reads it.

“Hey stud, what's up?! Seriously?!”

He is embarrassed to death. In that second he swears he's never going to set a foot on that website again.

“You know,” John is grinning. “Your shyness is about ninety percent of your lack of success with Doms.”

“That's not true,” Q mumbles. “Doms like shy subs.”

“Oh, that's not what I meant! I meant that even if you had a chance with half the Doms that frequent any bar out there, you would never meet them, because you're terrible at socializing! What would you even do if you went out and met a Dom you liked, hm? I bet you would never talk to him first.”

Q is frowning so hard it hurts by now. The worst part is, John is right. And he knows it. But knowing him doesn't help the fact that he is a social disaster.

“Just... leave me to it, OK? I need to sleep first and then I'll have a look with a clearer mind.”

“Promise?”

Q nods and John reluctantly takes off.

“You owe me a muffin and coffee,” he says by the door.

“You drank my coffee,” Q reminds him.

“I still want one. For the travel.”

Q shakes his head.

“OK, I'll buy you coffee. Now go home.”

John leaves and Q looks at the clock. It's almost eight, but still light outside, so he might fall asleep. He's found out it is easier to sleep during the day than during the night, for whatever reason, which makes it hellish for a daily routine but good for productivity, since he can't sleep and instead works. This time, he doubts even the coffee will keep him up, so he goes to brush his teeth.

The whole time, though, he can't stop thinking about the bloke on the website. Now that he thinks about it, there is something stirring in him when he connects that well formed body to the humiliation John made him go through. He thinks of the photo he himself has on the profile. Will the guy like it? He blushes and looks away from the mirror. He probably won't respond. If he will...

Anyway, who even calls themselves WhatIsWrongWithMe? Is it a joke? A reaction to something? Is he so kinky even he himself finds it creepy? Is he ashamed of himself? Well, it's definitely weird.

Wait.

What is Q even called?

Terror washes over him. John can't be trusted. He spits out toothpaste and goes to the computer to find out what horrific nickname John chose for him. He sits down, staring at “BinarySlut” and has to admit that at least John gave it his personal touch. It doesn't change the fact that he would like to never see those two words ever linked together again.

He reaches for the top of the laptop to close it, but then hesitates. The Wrong guy. Should he just leave it as it is? Let him think he is an outgoing, confident sub, or just end it quickly by admitting that he... just isn't? Or maybe it wouldn't be the end. Maybe he can just show his true face. And the Wrong guy (he should really stop calling him that if he wants this to work) might message back?

So he opens the chat window and types “Sorry, that was my friend. He created the account.”

He thought about adding more, but what would he add? That he would never say such things? That he would probably never write to him because he's retarded? That he finds human interaction outside his realm?

But before he could think of more, the Dom wrote back.

 

 

There was a knock on Bond's door.

He put the glass of whiskey on the table and went to open it, unsurprised to find Eve. Well, who else save for the delivery guys and a few hook ups even knew where he lived? Unless England fell and M had to tell him personally, or maybe Q was having a midlife crisis and didn't have enough booze, then only Eve might find him here, drinking in the middle of the day.

“Miss Moneypenny,” he greeted her bemusedly. Eve didn't come over often, but when she did, it was like a storm of productivity, she always had a mission to cater to and immediately after she accomplished it, she would be leaving with a feeling of a well done job. James suspected she became his mother sometimes between sleeping with him and meeting him for the third time. That was also why he didn't see women after he slept with them once. Didn't want to risk it, did he?

“James,” she smiled that omniscient smile of hers and scanned him from head to toe. He didn't bother with a t shirt after his day nap (yes, he has those now, it's a way of saying fuck you to nights) and only dressed into his sweats. “Nice” she slipped into the flat. He closed the door behind her and followed suit.

She went straight to the kitchen and placed a takeaway bag on the counter.

“I hope you are still able to process food,” she joked dryly while unpacking Chinese. “Or do you now live solely on alcohol?”

“We can test it,” he slumped onto his couch again and put his laptop in his lap.

Eve came over a few minutes later with two bowls and two sets of chopsticks. Bond had precisely two forks, one spoon and eight knives of different sizes and fatality, but he also had seven sets of chopsticks, each set differently crafted and, Eve suspected, directly from Asia. She put the bowls on the table, sat down and took the laptop from him, setting it on the floor.

Bond took it as an invitation to eat, so he grabbed his bowl.

“You know, a little birdie has told me something,” Eve started. Bond resigned, knowing he was doomed for another Eve Mission.

“What did Tanner tell you?” he played along. Eve smirked, but didn't argue.

“He mentioned something today. For a man of his status, he is terrible at holding his tongue. He told me your secret.”

“Eve, I'm a spy. I have more secrets than Russia. I know, I counted.”

She glares at him over her sweet and sour chicken.

“He meant a specific, very interesting secret that involves your personal life. I know something embarrassing about you, James.”

He scowled. There was a few things from his past he would rather not have done, so if Eve will torment him with the beer competition in his freshers' week or the video he made drunk where he sings Macarena...

“He said you have an account on a dating portal.”

“Oh, that.”

She waited, but he just kept eating. He wouldn't get her the satisfaction. She came here on her own mission this time, to make herself feel good, and as much as he liked her, he wouldn't show any embarrassment, even if he felt some. Which, frankly, he really didn't. He joined the site years ago, when it was completely new, out of curiosity and because his job used to be much more clock based, so hooking up with someone very quickly for the night was a good way of getting laid. He quickly forgot about it though, and it's been lying in the depths of internet for years now. 

Eve raises her eyebrows, but she doesn't give up. She puts down the bowl, takes the laptop from the floor and opens it. After a few minutes, she starts grinning like a child.

“Oh, how cute! And you were just thirty eight, what a baby. You like golden rain? Well that's surprising.”

He froze. Yeah, that would be around the information he would rather keep to himself. Along with the rest of the kinks he shared there. It felt kind of wrong for a person who knew him on this level, even slept with him, to know he has another self he doesn't show everyone, not even everyone he sleeps with.

“This needs updating,” Eve decided and started typing something.

“Good luck with that. Not even I remember the password anymore,” he said, finishing his kung pao. 

“I'm in,” she said shortly after and he sat up to see that yes, she really was in, she was in his profile as the administrator and quickly changing his age and erasing the picture. She pushed him back into the couch, took the bowl of him and snapped a picture that she quickly uploaded.

“I don't know what you're doing, but if you want to get me a date for tonight, you could just stay and forget the website,” he said with a small crooked smile, the feeling of her touch on his chest still lingering.

“I just want to see how this works. What do they message you? How quickly?”

“Were you never on a dating site?” he asked. She shrugged.

“Of course I was, but never on a BDSM one. I was always curious what it looks like when two of you get together.”

“Two of us?” he raises his eyebrows.

“Yes, you know, how you call yourselves...”

“Dominants and submissives. Doms and subs,” he stretches in his lounging position. One of his legs touches Eve's calf. “Why don't you just create a profile for yourself, Miss Moneypenny?” he asks suggestively.

“I'm too paranoid to join anything under my IP address,” she mumbles while scrolling down the profiles of people that wrote to James.

“But I'm fine, right?” he says dryly.

“You,” she turns the laptop to him. “Have a shitload of messages.”

“Not surprising, it's been lying dead for seven years with a photo of me naked. What were you expecting?”

“Well, most of them are dated seven years ago, since the website shows how long it's been since you were online. Still. I shouldn't be surprised, you're James Bond.”

Bond drank to that.

A sound came from the laptop which Bond very faintly remembered as the message notification from the website. Eve opened the message window.

“Wow, that was quick,” she said, a trace of surprise in her voice. He sat up again and looked at who is the sender.

“That's just too easy,” he scoffed. The man on the picture was naked and bound, and although Bond liked the image, liked it a lot, actually, he was immediately put off by the easy offer.

“Too easy is bad?” she asked and he knew what she meant by that doubtful tone. He did have a reputation of sleeping with anything, easy or not.

“No challenge. What's the fun in it.”

A second later, he added:

“Maybe add him to bookmarks for a rainy day.”

She chuckled and did as he asked.

“You know, I could teach you a few things,” he suggested when they went back to their food. She just smiled over her chopsticks.

“I have a boyfriend, Bond.”

“That is a no?”

She put down the bowl and looked at him.

“Even if I didn't, I already had you. It was fun, but it was enough.”

With that she stood up and took her purse.

“Thank you for your company, 007. Pleasant as always.”

And with that she left. Mission Bond completed, agent over and out. Bond let her leave without boring politeness.

He washed the bowls and let them to dry. He sat behind the laptop again with a new glass of whiskey. The night was young and now he started flirting with Eve, his mind was filled with ideas. The reminder of his domming personality also helped that. He didn't get many chances nowadays to Dom a cute sub, with the work and the missions and his exhaustion with the dating scene. He didn't really like hooking up over the internet because without physical contact there was no chemistry, but maybe this once he could try to find a willing body just for fun.

First thing he found out was that Eve didn't just change his age, she changed his name as well. That woman was a menace. It was surprising anyone would even message him with the name WhatIsWrongWithMe. But here he was, the bound man that wrote to him with the enthusiasm of a teenage girl on tinder, thirty two years old, pretty generic sub with asphyxiation kink the size of Madrid. Bond wasn't impressed, but he was too lazy to find anyone else. And this boy was clearly interested.

Just as he was opening the window, a new message popped.

BinarySlut: Hey stud, what's up? :*  
BinarySlut: Sorry, that was my friend. He created the account.

Oh, so teenagers taking a piss. Or maybe not?

WhatIsWrongWithMe: That's alright. Why did he/she?

He waited for a few seconds, sipping. Maybe there's still hope.

BinarySlut: He thinks I need to get out there more.

Bond set the glass aside and took the laptop into his lap, settling more comfortably.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: And do you?  
BinarySlut: Yeah, I think I do.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Then you should try with me. Or was messaging me your friend's idea? Don't you like me?  
BinarySlut: Well... it was his idea, but I do like you. I'm just not used to this.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Relax. Tell me what you like.  
BinarySlut: Uhm... could you first tell me what does your nickname mean?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Guess who created my profile.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Don't get side tracked. Tell me what you like the most in bed.

There was a long pause there. He wondered if the sub was too shy for this. It was kinda endearing that he would be afraid to voice his desires over a computer screen. Well, to be fair, he would be telling his deepest desires to a stranger who didn't even show him his face. But still, for Bond, being comfortable in his sexuality was a big part of his personality. He was slightly frustrated by people who were held back. He wanted them to open up for him. He wanted BinarySlut to open up only to him.

BinarySlut: I like when a Dom has absolute control over me. When I don't have to think for myself.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: You would like if I had complete power? Over your body and mind?  
BinarySlut: Yes, I'd like that. If you tied me up so tight I couldn't move. If you cut off my air. If only you decided when I breathe.  
BinarySlut: I shouldn't do this now. I haven't slept in two days. I'm not thinking clearly.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: I like how you're thinking.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Are you home? Can you go to sleep?  
BinarySlut: Yes.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Then go to sleep right now. But before you fall asleep, I want you to take care of that hard on you must have. You'll wank off to the image of me strangling and fucking you. Answer Yes Sir if you want to take that order and pick this up when you're rested.

There is a slight pause.

BinarySlut: Yes, sir.

Bond's smile is predatory. He sets down his computer, leans against the back of the couch, brings the glass to his lips with one hand and the other covers the bulge in his sweats. Maybe he should spend more time on this website. And maybe Moneypenny isn't such a terrible friend.

 

 

Q sets the laptop on the table as if it burned him. He is having difficulties breathing, his imagination confusing his current state with his fantasized state, and his eyes are big. He is feeling what he hasn't felt in a long time – the arousal that can't be substituted by watching porn or anything else where he is alone and just dreaming. Another person has taken the reins. Someone else told him what to do.

He opens his fly and pulls down his trousers and pants, letting out his hard length. He spits into his hand a few times and wraps it around himself, moaning slightly and stretching his back. He imagines the faceless man, his body on top oh him, pulling at his collar...

He raises his left hand and pulls at the collar still around his throat, which makes him whimper a breathy sound, breathy because the collar is pushing at his vocal chords. His hand speeds up and he is very quickly coming, his release landing on the table right next to the laptop.

When he catches his breath, he kicks off his trousers and underwear and curls into a little ball on the couch, falling asleep immediately.


	2. Chapter 2

Q slept for twelve hours.

He woke up disoriented and cold, apart from the small of his back, where Frosty, his white angora cat, made a nest. He looked around himself, trying to remember why he fell asleep in his living room, naked and without a blanket, when his gaze fell on the now dead laptop on his coffee table.

His face grew hot when he thought about the previous evening. If he knew he could have such fun and no ties with anyone, he would have started this online thing a long time ago. But, to be fair, he would probably just get addicted to this kind of contact and never again even talk to real people. Which, when he thought about it some more, is a danger even now.

But the man... he had to message him again. Q felt bound to him somehow, maybe because he felt grateful, maybe because he wanted more, maybe both... maybe because he gave a promise he will. He called him sir. Now it seemed like a rushed decision, but then again, it's just internet, right? They aren't having real sex. He can rush this a little.

But first a shower and some clothes. And cleaning the table is in order. Food would be great. So he did his morning routine, already planning a nap in his proper bed where it is warm and soft and comfortable, and about an hour later he sat behind his computer, plugged it in and opened the website.

WhatIsWrongWithMe wasn't online. Q thought about writing something, but then decided to leave it be for now. Maybe he didn't want Q to message again. Q didn't want to be clingy. Hopefully he'll message him and they can pick up where they left. Q's stomach burned when he thought of it.

So he went around his day as if nothing happened. He went shopping, made lunch, had a nap, checked the website twice every hour... until finally the window made a sound and he rushed to check it.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: Did you do what I told you to yesterday?

Q was perched up on the couch like a monkey, staring at the screen. He didn't want to seem too eager and reply immediately as if he's been waiting there the whole day, but he also didn't want the man to leave. So after a few moments of hesitation, he sat down properly and replied.

BinarySlut: Yes.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: How was it?  
BinarySlut: It was great.

He should give him more than that. This looks like they are talking about the weather.

BinarySlut: I didn't come like that in years.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Years?

Q cursed himself. Now he looks like the desperate case he is.

BinarySlut: I didn't sub in two years.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Why not?  
BinarySlut: I'm not very good at looking for a partner.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Well that's a good thing your friend made you do this then. A sub like you shoudn't go uncared for.  
BinarySlut: You don't know me.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: I like what I know. Why don't you tell me more then?  
BinarySlut: There's not much to tell.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: What should I call you?

Q thinks about it, then chooses a random name.

BinarySlut: Mark.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: OK Mark, I am James. Now start with what you do.  
BinarySlut: I'm an IT guy at a firm.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Why didn't you sub in two years?  
BinarySlut: I'm bad at talking to people. Or flirting. And I hate saying no to people, and I do want to say no to most of the doms and that just makes me... I don't know, just drained.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: You are doing OK so far talking to me, and you don't have to flirt with me. If you want to say no, you can do so anytime. I don't want a sub who doesn't want me. Understood?  
BinarySlut: Yes, sir.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Good boy.

Q bit his lip hard, but it didn't stop the pleased whimper from escaping his throat.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: Now tell me more about your history in BDSM.

 

And Q did. It was weird telling someone he doesn't know about his sexual life, but it also felt good. This person doesn't know him. He will never tell anyone if they have a fight. He won't see him in the pub or on the street and think about his bed manners. For a while he felt guilty for talking about himself, but then – James asked. He is perfectly capable of stopping him if Q rants on for too long.

BinarySlut: May I ask you about your past experiences?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: I started dominating at uni, then stopped during my army years and started again a few years ago. I don't do it often.  
BinarySlut: Why not?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: It takes a lot of time and effort to set up a scene, not talking about looking for a sub first. I tend to go for the easier route.  
BinarySlut: So you prefer one night stands?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: My job only allows those.  
BinarySlut: What do you do?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Travel agent.

Q frowned. He knew about many travel agents who had relationships, families, marriages. He supposed James was avoiding the real answer. So what, they are still strangers. So he didn't push it.

They talked for another two hours before Q's bell rang and he had to excuse himself. This time James didn't give him any order and he was both relieved and disappointed in the same measure.

He opened the door and was surprised to find Eve standing there, with a smile and take out hanging from her hand. Q opened the door wider and let her in.

“I have one day off,” he said. “If you came without food, I'd throw you out.”

“I would like to see you try,” she said, amused, and took off her shoes.

Q followed her into the kitchen and helped her set up the dinner.

“So how was your day off?” she asked when they sat down to eat.

“Surprisingly good,” Q poured them both a glass of red wine.

“How come?”

“How come it was good or surprising?”

“Surprising. Every day off should be good. That's the bloody point.”

Yes, Q knew that. He also knew that most of the time his days off were too boring, so he found himself masturbating, which always reminded him of all the things he can't do alone in bed. Some days it was just a thought that flew over his mind, some it was a full blown ache that made him curl on the bed and hope for a better future. But today, he didn't have to do any of that. It wasn't as if he had a partner who would compensate the years alone, but James did bring a part of that element into his life.

“Yeah... I'm just normally bored,” he decided to pick the information that wouldn't lead to an hour long debate over his mental health. “And today was pleasant.”

Eve always brought Chinese. Once Q actually offered to order and pay for curry and she made a whole speech about how Brits need to stop eating Indian food as if they were to undo years of colonization by buying from local immigrants. Q made her promise never to bring this up in front of any living human ever again.

“Do you visit everyone in the agency or did you coronate yourself my mother?” he asked. She laughed.

“God no. Only a selected few. The ones that need a mother.”

“Like?”

“Like Martha from accounting. She is this close from being an anorectic. And Stephen who runs HR. His wife left him three months ago. A real bitch if you want to know,” she finishes her sweet and sour chicken (it consists of at least half her diet) and waves her fork around. “And of course Bond.”

He looks at her in surprise.

“Bond?”

Eve shrugs.

“The man lives on whiskey and the memories of Cold War, he needs someone to take care of him.”

Q finishes his kung pao and takes the plates into the sink. He starts washing them immediately.

“I thought you had a boyfriend,” he said over his shoulder. She stood up to pour herself more wine.

“Oh, no, I don't have sex with Bond. Hell no. Once was enough. I mean, don't get me wrong, he was amazing,” she looks him in the eyes and raises her eyebrows in a conspiratorial look. “And I mean AMAZING. But there was nowhere to go from there. I wanted him to have respect for me, and that wouldn't happen if I became his go-to girl.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” he stopped the tap and dried his hands on a towel. “He isn't the relationship type.”

“No, that's not it,” she seemed to think about it, leaning against the counter. “I think he might be really good at a relationship. He just doesn't want one. Or more likely stays away from the possibility of developing one. Just to be safe.”

Q thought about what he knew about Bond's past. The number of women who died after sleeping with him was really impressive. And when he loved them, something even worse happened. He understood why Bond would try to stay away from relationships. He would too if he were him.

After the dinner, they watched John Wick with more wine and after Eve left, he sat behind his computer, slightly intoxicated.

BinarySlut: What do you like to do to your subs?

 

 

Bond's work out was interrupted by his laptop making THAT sound again. He growled and made another ten curl ups before he went to it, wiping the sweat off his face on the way with an old towel. He had the website open since Mark left, just so he wouldn't miss if he messaged again (what? James was bored. He didn't have a mission in two weeks). His profile, though, started gaining more attention and now he was being messaged by all kinds of profiles he really didn't care about.

So when he looked at the message window and saw this time it was BinarySlut, his mood was instantly better.

BinarySlut: What do you like to do to your subs?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: What would you want me to do to you?  
BinarySlut: So many things. But I want to know what you like.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: What would you do to make me happy?  
BinarySlut: Anything.  
BinarySlut: I really want to suck you.

Bond let out an involuntary shocked laughter. Well this was rather a quick progress for someone who had problems talking about sex a few hours ago.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: That escalated quickly.  
BinarySlut: I might have drunk a bit.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: That explains it. Do you turn into a slut when you drink?  
BinarySlut: I turn normal. And depressed, so I should probably go to sleep.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: No, don't. I bet I can make you feel better.

 

“Q Branch,” Q said after pressing the phone's speaker phone button. He pushed his glasses up his nose and continued typing on his enhanced keyboard.

“Hi, Q,” Eve's voice came from the speaker. “Listen, Bond is on his way to take the equipment for Syria's mission.”

“Alright, it's waiting for him,” he said idly, paying attention to a line of code.

“Great. He will take it from you in the Natural History Museum.”

The code stopped and Q was staring at the phone.

“Why doesn't he just come to my office like a normal person?”

Eve's tone stayed absolutely even, as if nothing was wrong with an agent who likes to exchange guns in tourist locations.

“He is in a rush, his plane is leaving in two hours.”

“And the Natural History Museum is on his way to which airport, Birmingham International?”

“Don't be so irritated, Q. You need to get out of here for a while. Go see some dinosaurs.”

He narrowed his eyes at the little machine on his table.

“Eve, is this your way of sending children to the playground?”

“Maybe,” he could hear her grin.

“We are NOT your children, Moneypenny!” he said before hanging up and taking his jacket angrily.

 

Forty two minutes later he was walking up the stairs to the huge door of the museum. He took out his staff card and showed it to one of the security men who wanted to search him.

“Everything is alright,” he said when he saw the cautious look on the man's face. Another side effect of this ridiculous meet up point – confused people awaiting an attack when MI6 shows up. So he passed the security and walked to the dinosaur section.

Bond was awaiting him right at the beginning of the exhibition, smart and butch as always. He joined him and thought about what they look like, and in what universe isn't a combination of two men out of which one looks like Rambo in a suit suspicious in a place like this. There were families with children here, for fuck's sake.

“Q,” Bond greeted him discreetly. Q tried many times not to like his voice, but there was something very attractive about that deep baritone, so he stopped torturing himself and just enjoyed. Even though now he felt a bit guilty because of James. They've been messaging for two months now, with a few moments of silent days when James had to leave because of work. He never knew for how long he'd be gone, but he always left with clear instructions for Q so he wouldn't forget him. This time he was certain he would be gone for at least a week and made Q wear a rope harness over his crotch that he could only remove during the night when he thought of him. And Q was already looking forward to the “thinking”. He wondered if James' voice was just as deep as Bond's.

He shook his thoughts before he started blushing in front of the agent.

“007,” he answered. They walked into the exhibition, which mostly constructed of a series of narrow paths surrounded by fossils and models.

“The passport, boarding ticket to Damascus and your gun,” he very silently commented while handing him a sleek black box. “Contact and information about locations of our arm dealers,” an envelope. “And a travel itinerary including your false documents and reservations in hotels near the target's house. You should also know that every travel website I checked warns tourists from travelling to Syria. Apparently, there is a civil war going on.”

Bond took the offered objects and hid them in his jacket's inner pockets. “Yes, I've heard. Remind me again why are we involving ourselves with a Syrian civil war?”

“Because, as every time since 1607, we are cleaning the idiots' mess,” Q replied unamused while looking at a replica of a Hadrosaur's nest full of eggs. Then he sighed and turned to leave.

“Have fun, 007.”

But before he could leave him there, he realized that the dozens of people behind him were too squashed for him to slip between them.

“I don't think so,” Bond voiced his doubts and he sighed again and turned back.

“Why did we even come here?” he asks incredulously. The people in front of them meant that they couldn't even escape quickly.

“I had my orders,” Bond said and Q looked at him, realizing he might have had an actual order to drag him into this mess to prolong his social interaction. 

“Moneypenny?” he asked. Bond nodded. Q cursed her.

They walked the first part of the exhibition just to get to a large room with a high ceiling that was a home of a robotic model of Tyrannosaurus Rex and the path blocked by a hoard of standing – STANDING – children and their even bigger and more blocking parents. 

“I hate this place,” Q murmured. 

“Really?” Bond asked. “I thought this would be right up your alley.”

Q glared at him.

“Is this a joke about my age or education?” he asked. Bond smirked.

“Both, since you look like a fifteen year old geek.”

“I'm regretting I already gave you that gun.”

Bond chuckled.

Suddenly a child started screaming. Q looked in the general direction of the sound and saw a a little boy, probably autistic an having troubles with all the noises and colours around him in such a claustrophobic setting. Before he could move, the boy trashed from his mother's arms and ran towards them, in between their legs and out of the room, the mother following. Q was pulled by the front of his shirt and the small of his back towards Bond.

His breathing stopped when he realized that he was flush against the agent thanks to the woman that pushed against him in her chase, and that as 007 grabbed his shirt, he also grabbed the upper part of the harness that bore straight into his cheeks and crack. Bond was now holding him by it, probably not even realizing it.

A wave of humiliation, fear and lust washed over him, a natural reaction he had with big men touching him in such ways. But right after he felt something else, a touch of protectiveness, and a feeling like he was doing something bad when he let Bond touch what was James'.

“Are you alright, Q?” Bond asked him and Q looked up to see him frowning a bit. He realized he was breathing hard and his face was hot.

“Yes. Just didn't expect that. You can let me go now, thank you.”

Bond let go and Q stepped away from him, still ashamed that he liked the way his body pressed against Bond's broad chest.

They made their way towards the exit slowly and then walked out of the museum, only nodding to the security team.

“Well,” Q turned to Bond outside on the spring sun. “That was rather lovely. Apart from the whole experience. As I said, good luck out there. Don't get yourself killed.”

Bond nods. “Take care, Q.”

They left each in a different direction – Bond to catch his plane and Q to wrap up his station before six.

 

James messages him after two weeks.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: I missed you.

Q finds it only in the morning and his heart skips a beat. Before he runs to catch the tube, he quickly writes back “I missed you too.”

Bond comes back from his mission. He looks awful. His face is more blue than not, his right arm is covered in bandages under which he has twenty stitches. He is limping on the left side and his hair is burned above his left ear. His left hand is covered in healing second degree burns. Q understands that he acquired those in the first week during an explosion and completed the mission with only half his body fully functioning, getting his right arm sliced in the process. He actually felt really bad for the agent. He didn't even do it for a cause he believed in.

He made the briefing quick. In the middle of it, Eve ran into the branch, her concerned face growing scared when she saw Bond.

“James!” she sighed out and Q felt a strange pull at his stomach when the first thing he thought of was his laptop and the message window. He quickly sobered up, feeling bad for not thinking of the injured man in front of him.

Meanwhile, Eve stood in front of Bond, unsure what to do, obviously wanting to touch him.

“I am alright, Eve,” he said, but his voice wasn't as smooth as usually. 

“No, you're not! Why aren't you in medical?!”

“There is nothing medical can do now. I have a bag of painkillers and creams. I just need to wait now.”

She didn't look persuaded, but there really wasn't anything anyone could do now. Bond was a big boy, he would spend a few weeks in his flat and in no time he'll be running around, being a menace to the international peace.

In the evening, James wrote him again and this time Q was there to answer.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: I'm not really in a state to write too much, but I want to know how you've been.  
BinarySlut: What is wrong?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: nothing, just caught something that makes me really tired.  
BinarySlut: Will you be alright?  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: don't worry.

Q noticed that he was writing slower and with less finesse than he usually did. He hoped it wasn't anything serious, but didn't want to make him strain himself more.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: Did you follow my orders the whole time?  
BinarySlut: Yes, every day.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: Good. Tell me about your normal life.

Q was prepared to go into detail about his nights without James, but the last sentence made him realize he must be really sick and with no appetite.

BinarySlut: I'm happy you care about me, but you should rest. I won't feel any better knowing I'm bothering you.  
WhatIsWrongWithMe: I just want your company.

Q's heart sunk into his guts.

BinarySlut: What if I came over?

There was a long pause.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: You won't like what you'll see.

Q gulped.

BinarySlut: Why?

An even longer pause.

WhatIsWrongWithMe: The thing I caught... might have been akin to a small bomb.

Q frowned. Was it that bad? And what did James mean by “won't like what you see”? Red eyes, runny nose? Or green skin and lots of vomiting?

BinarySlut: I'll risk it.

 

It was getting dark when he left the Notting Hill station. He had to admit James lived in a great part of the city. The walk was quite long, streets already full of tourists since the weather was so nice these days, and Q would be enjoying the nice London air if his stomach wasn't in a turmoil. He's been thinking about this for the past three months, of course, the circumstances of their first meeting always very different in his head. Somehow, this was much more preferable. He would meet him and none of them would expect anything sexual to happen. They can get to know each other better.

He stopped in front of the house with the matching address, deeply breathed in, and rung the bell.

It took almost a minute for any sign of movement behind the door, and then it opened and Q had a slight heart attack.

“No.”

He turned and walked down the stairs back on the street.

“Q?!” Bond's incredulous voice reached him. The agent started descending the stairs, much slower than Q did. “Q, you're not...?”

Q turned on his heel to face him.

“Don't... don't try to tell me you didn't know.”

He was furious. Humiliated. Suicidal, in the non-suicidal way where he just really wished he didn't exist right now. Or for the rest of his life. Bond was limping towards him, barefoot. Q could see a part of his left foot peeking from under a bandage, burned and scratched to flesh.

“Do I look like I want to prank my colleagues, Q?” he asked and Q had to admit that this was not the moment for revelations of that kind. But this couldn't be... he couldn't have been online dating James Bond for the past three months.

“Well... too bad,” he turned to leave, but Bond's unburned hand caught his arm. He spun around, more of his own free will than Bond's force.

“Don't... don't fucking walk!” he shouted, realizing Bond was walking on concrete without skin between the road and his flesh.

“Then don't fucking run!” Bond answered angrily.

They were eyeing each other, panting.

“You meant a literal fucking bomb, didn't you?” Q suddenly realized and laughed hysterically. “What were you planning on telling me when I came here?”

“I had a nice backstory about a charity action in Uganda when our condo was targeted, actually.”

Q laughed even harder. Completely without humour.

“I suppose your real name isn't Mark,” James said. Q's eyes got bigger under another revelation.

“You gave your real name. Bond, you total twat, you gave a stranger on the internet your real name!”

“You wanked to the thought of me every night for the past two weeks, I really don't think you qualify as a stranger, Q.”

“Yes, thank you very much for reminding me of that!” Q fumed. He was sure his face was burning. He felt like a bloody idiot.

“Great, now you look disgusted by the idea,” Bond winced and finally let go of his arm. His wince lasted as he moved it to his torso, and Q realized that hand had twenty stitches in it. But he didn't stop his attack.

“Like you need any ego boosters,” he spat. Bond frowned at him.

“If you don't want to talk about it like adults, you should go.”

Q was this close from telling him to go fuck himself, that he won't listen to his orders anymore, but then quickly stopped himself, knowing that that would only get him stuck with Bond, probably tending to his wounds and actually talking, and he really didn't feel like calming down anytime soon.

“Good night, Bond,” he said, turned and left.

James watched him as he went in the direction of the station, and when he disappeared, he limped back into his flat. He felt like complete shit. Calling Q – Mark – was a serious decision. A decision he never felt like making. The last time someone tended to him was when he was tortured by La Chiffre. Since then he was on a path of thickening his skin, never again wanting to feel vulnerable. Now, he just didn't want to be alone, and the image of Mark... Q, in his apartment, just talking to him, or maybe just BEING there... it felt good. It felt right.

Now it went to shit.

What were the fucking odds? 

He slowly sat on the couch on his right side, drawing his legs up so the left one would rest on the right one, and resting his right hand on the arm rest. This would be probably how he would sleep for a few weeks now.

If it was a coincidence, and it looked like it was, it was pretty awful. The other choice was that it was all Eve's doing, but he somehow doubted it, remembering how Q wrote him first. And he couldn't very well ask if she knew, because he didn't want to let her know that Q...

He wished he had whiskey by hand, but with the amount of medication he had in him, that wouldn't be a good idea even for him. And being drunk and in as much pain as he was without the painkillers, that was... he shuddered. He wasn't the masochist here.

He fell asleep thinking about Q and why would be his reaction this strong. Yes, it was surprising. Q seemed angry, disgusted, outraged. Bond never thought that everyone should like him, but he didn't think he was repulsive.

His last thought was that Q wasn't repulsive either.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might have a fascination with injured Bond. And Bond in general. Yeah, you must have noticed, if you've read my fics, that I kinda fixate on Bond a lot :D I just think that guy is HOT.

Eve came over three days later. He still felt like shit, Q wasn't replaying to him, he didn't sleep in a horizontal position for two weeks now and Eve didn't like curry. Why did god hate him?

“You look like you need a bottle of vodka,” she said when he opened the door.

“I feel like I need a coma,” he countered and let her in.

“Do you eat?” she asked. He had to admit that the last few days he lived on various types of take outs and that he had to have Tesco deliver him some food for the rest of the day. 

“Well at least you don't live on your meds,” she sounded really glad, like that was an option. Actually, that was an option, and Bond has done so in the past.

“How are the burns?” she asked when they ate.

“The majority of the blisters popped yesterday,” he said, watching her disgust. She didn't stop eating, though. Eve was a brave woman. “So give it a week and I might even start thinking about sex.”

“You're not thinking about sex?!” she spat out a noodle. “I had no idea it's this serious!”

Bond growled in frustration.

“I can't remain a bloody boner and I don't even know if it's because of the medication or the pain.”

“Well I know that the pain isn't responsible for your chattiness,” she chuckled. “How many more than you should are you taking?”

“Double,” he said easily.

“Well, I guess the usual amount wouldn't even work on you anymore, so good for you.”

“How is Q?”

She stopped and stared at him for a moment. He mentally kicked himself in the balls.

“Q?”

“Yeah,” he winced.

“He's fine,” she said slowly, suspiciously. “Why?”

“I was just wondering. You visit him too.”

“Yes,” she leaned back, still talking in the same, slow, what-the-fuck-is-going-on tone. “But he's been busy lately.”

“Too busy to grab a dinner?”

“Bond, you've had way too many pills to be like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like you care.”

He looked into the ground. Yes, he did care. That wasn't the pills' fault though. Their fault was that he was voicing his worries, and voicing them to Eve.

“You should go before I spill some state secrets,” he said. She raised her eyebrows.

“Like I don't know them all.”

But she did let him kick her out in the end. Bond cursed himself. For caring.

 

 

Q's days were filled with work again. He was running the best god damned tech department in the country, seeing to every issue, developing anything that needed developing, upgrading all the equipment, watching every mission. He slept in his office half of the time and the security guys were bringing him muffins without him ever asking them. They even found out his favourite, the gingerbread one from Costa.

He knew he had to be in work in order to stop thinking about James, Bond or whoever the hell he thought about (because apparently James and Bond were two separate people in his head), but he was also dreading the day Bond is feeling well enough to set a foot to MI6. He actually had one of the main door security guys and all the receptionists promise that they will contact him if he comes back.

Despite all of his preparations for that moment, he was not prepared when it came.

Bond's hair was uneven, but the scratches on his face disappeared, his left palm – the only thing visible – was only slightly red, and he wasn't limping anymore. He came into Q branch only two minutes after Q got the call from the receptionist.

“Q,” he said when he reached his table. Q breathed in deeply.

“007,” he said.

“Could we speak in private?”

Q looked around at his colleagues. No one was paying any attention to them, all of them working on their projects and daily tasks. But he knew that their confrontation could get ugly, so he nodded and started walking towards his office, trusting Bond to follow. 

“You didn't answer any of my messages,” Bond said when the door was closed behind them. Q sat at his table to have something parting them. Bond remained standing.

“I didn't have a reason to go there anymore,” he said, immediately kicking himself mentally for admitting that the only reason he had to be on the website was Bond.

“Q, why...”

Q interrupted him in a professional tone.

“Bond, let's forget about this. We were looking for different things and didn't find them, we can move on like adults and...”

“How did we not find what we were looking for?”

Q stopped and looked at the agent. Bond looked dead serious.

“We thought we were talking to someone else,” he said, unable to put what he felt into the right words.

“It was me and it was you, Q. And I don't see a reason why our relationship couldn't go on.”

“There was no relationship!” Q said maybe a bit loudly than he intended. He continued in a more sophisticated tone. “We were strangers on the internet. Now we found out we are colleagues and...”

“What is your problem with me?” Bond bent down so he could rest his outstretched hands on the table. “Why am I suddenly your biggest enemy?”

“Because you know...!” Q stood up before he could realize what's he doing, what's he saying. He stopped himself, staring into those blue eyes.

“Well you know too,” Bond said.

“That's not the same!” he scoffed and started pacing behind the table. “So what, you're a dom. No one cares, everyone would just admit that as if they knew all along, it's quite obvious. But I... I don't want anyone to know the things that I would...”

He didn't finish.

“I wouldn't ever tell anybody,” Bond said.

“It's enough that you know!” Q stopped pacing and turned to face him. “I told you things I would never tell you if I knew who you were!”

"Why?“ Bond took an angrier stand. „Because it's me or because you know me personally? Because I might not be the greatest relationship guru, but I know that this is not how you make them!"

"How would you know?" Q spat.

"It might surprise you, but I had my fair share of relationships. I've had more of them than you had sexual partners."

Q laughed without humour.

"That's not much to say."

"That's your problem,“ Bond spat out.

They were breathing heavily by the time they finished, both shooting flashes from their eyes.

“Leave, 007,” Q said finally. Bond frowned, but it seemed he wouldn't fight anymore.

“I also have a part I play,” he said before heading to the door. “And I showed you that I'm not that bulletproof. If you can't see how much danger I put myself into for you, then I have nothing to do here.”

Q watched him leave, thinking about those words. Yes, Bond was different than he normally showed the world, but what is the big deal?

He thought about what Eve said, that Bond didn't do relationships because they always end badly. How Bond would never show his true face to anyone, and how he showed a part of it to a stranger on the internet. That he asked him to come when he was injured and alone.

He slumped into the chair and hid his face in his palms. Maybe Bond wasn't so untouchable after all. But that doesn't make it all OK.

 

Bond hid behind a barrel of coal and shot another three bodyguards. He looked up, trying to find a point of leverage. There was a garage just a few meters from him, with a car parked outside. He shot the fourth guy and, before the other seven could run close enough to aim, ran towards that car and started climbing.

"What are you doing, 007?" Q's mission voice, always calm but sometimes this tense when Bond was doing something he deemed stupid, reached his earpeace. Bond climbed the car and leaped from it, catching the roof of the garage and climbing up. The first shots ricocheted from the tinplate.

"What, don't you trust me?" he asked when he lay on the roof.

"Trust you?!" asked Q incredulously. "Of course I don't trust you! I trust Hitler more than you!"

Bond had to admit that was a fair statement. He aimed at a big barrel of petrol and shot.

An explosion roared through the air and punched him in the face, the wave washing over his body.

"Well... that's not best for our work relations," he said matter of factly after a while of waiting if any of the hired killers were alive. Q just mumbled something.

 

R was leaving Q's office just to be met with a Double Oh agent on her way out. He smiled at her and waited until she made a circle around him with a nervous smile of her own, then walked into Q's office.

Q took one look at him from his table and his whole body went tense and an irritated grimace took over his face.

“Before you say something,” Bond raised his hand to show a large and full paper bag. “I went to Costa and asked them to make a fresh batch of gingerbread muffins. And then I bought that batch.”

Q's mind froze for a second. He was looking at the bag in Bond's hand, trying to grasp reality. Bond remembered his favourite treat. Bond bought him his favourite treat. He actually went as far as scaring the Costa employees into making him a whole new batch of it and then brought it to Q like a peace offering.

“That... that is very...” not nice, not nice, not...” “...nice of you, 007, but...”

“Q,” Bond looked him in the eyes. “They are still warm.”

Q gulped. Tried to refuse. Then outstretched his hand in a grabby motion.

“Give me one.”

Bond grinned and opened the bag. The smell filled the room and when he stepped closer to the table and stuck the bag in front of Q, the genius picked one of the six muffins and started eating happily. Trying not to look happy. Which was very hard.

Impossible, as it seemed, because after the first bite, a silent moan escaped his mouth. He dared to look at Bond and saw that the agent was watching him intensely. 

“Stop it,” he said with a full mouth.

“What?” asked Bond innocently.

“You know what.”

“I can't,” Bond leaned in, towering over him and Q's first reaction, the tingling of his stomach and lightheadedness, was quickly followed by anger. For a while there he forgot how ashamed he felt. Because yes, all of this was shame, humiliating embarrassment he felt every time he looked at Bond. 

“You should,” he put the muffin down, suddenly losing appetite. Bond sensed the change of atmosphere.

“Why did you come here?” Q asked. Bond sat down on one of the chairs opposite him.

“I want to talk.”

“I don't.”

“Well shit, bad for you,” Bond growled. “I don't get why I'm the one making all the effort, as if I did something wrong. What is so terrible about me that you react... so disgusted by me?” he spat the word angrily. “I get that you're embarrassed, but I... I like who you are. I like all of it. Actually, I much rather like you now that I know you're not so one dimensional.”

“One dimensional?” Q asked, getting angrier again after the anger left him when Bond said he liked him. “It's called professionalism, Bond, and it's a part of human behaviour you don't seem to have.”

“When was I not professional?!” Bond stood up in anger and Q quickly followed so he wouldn't be left sitting in a room with an angered Double Oh agent. “The time I was almost killed on a mission I didn't even understand but did anyway? Or the time I did it a month later? Or any of those times for the last twenty years?! Don't call me unprofessional, Q, because if I get truly unprofessional, you will be slammed against that door and begging me to go on.”

He stopped when he saw the effect he had on his Quartermaster. Q was breathing almost as quick as him, his pupils blown big, his cheeks pink with blood rushed into them... Bond looked down to see if he was hard, but he couldn't see anything through his trousers. He looked into his eyes again.

Q realized he was being a prey.

A beat of a heart passed, and...

... a knock interrupted them, the door to the office opened and R walked in, looking concerned.

“I am sorry, but is everything alright?” she asked, looking from one to the other. Q swallowed, unable to look away from those blue eyes staring back at him.

“Yes,” he said finally. “Everything is fine. 007 was just leaving.”

Bond got the clue and involuntarily straightened his back into a more natural position. He then turned to R, flashing her a calm smile.

“Sorry to disturb you, R. Have a nice day, both of you,” he turned to leave.

“Leave the muffins, 007,” Q called after him.

“No,” Bond said, walking to the door. “You'd live on them.” 

Then he turned, picked one from the bag and tossed it after Q. “You can have one.”

Q caught it and blushed again. Bond left.

R looked quizzically at Q.

“Nothing's going on, R, we're just having some... work issues, is all. We'll sort it out eventually.”

“I hope so, because it looked like he was about to jump you.”

Q immediately thought of all the meanings that sentence might have had.

“Nope, all fine here,” he smiled at R. “Now, if you excuse me... I have muffins.”

She watched as he sat and picked up his first, half eaten muffin, and just shook her head. Her boss was a child sometimes. 

 

It was dark when Q got home that day.

It was a hard day at the office. After Bond left, 003's mission went tits up and he had to evacuate her from a burning building using only seventy years old blueprints. He was glad he had a warm bed to come home to, because days like these made him appreciate the simple pleasures in life.

He didn't even flick the lights on in his living room, just went straight through it to the bathroom to wash his teeth before collapsing to bed. Or he wanted to...

“Q.”

Q's heart made a flip and landed a centimeter off to the side. He turned to face the agent sitting in his armchair leisurely like a big cat (right next to the two actual cats who sat on the sofa next to the chair). Bond was only in his shirt, his jacket draped over the back of the sofa, and his sleeves rolled up to show muscular arms covered in lip smacking veins.

“For fuck's sake, Bond!” he gasped. Bond just grinned like he did a good deed and stood up, taking something from the coffee table. Q realized it was the bag of muffins.

“I just wanted to give you this,” he said, walking towards him slowly. Q made a step back, then remembered himself and stood straight against the horde of muscle that was coming his way. “Figured you'd need a new fix of sugar by now.”

Bond stood in front of him at the length of a forearm. Q went to take the bag, but the agent pulled it back, playing with him. Q shot him a glare.

“Keep it, then,” he said and turned around. Bond's fingers circled his wrist and spun him back.

“Only if I can keep you as well,” he said in a low growl that made Q's guts make all sorts of things, and pulled him close. Q stared into his eyes, crystal clear even in this darkness. The bag fell to the floor.

“007...” he started.

“James,” Bond corrected him. His other hand hugged his lower bag and the one circling his wrist came up to his throat. Q tried to breath in and found that the reason why he couldn't wasn't the pressure. 

A second later, Bond's mouth was on his, making it even more difficult.

The shock from it all didn't leave Q's brain enough time to process everything. He was pushed back, stumbling until he reached a wall, then pressed against it with Bond's firm body. His hands were pinned above his head and he realized his throat is free, which Bond quickly changed when he moved from Q's mouth to his neck and started sucking. Q opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. Bond's thigh was brushing his hard cock. Bond's teeth sunk into his shoulder.

The pain brought him back to his senses. He was being squashed by a man almost twice his size, who could pin him down like an ant and do whatever he wanted to him, and Q would like it, he was sure of that. But his fight or flight responses kicked in when he realized the whole impact of the situation, and what he was getting into if he let Bond have his way with him.

Before he knew it, he was pushing against the agent, trying to get him to back away, but the man was too god damn big to move. He tried to free his hands from the grasp, push his body away from the wall.

“Bond...!” he started. Bond straightened up, freed one hand to push Q back into place with a stammering strength, and pressed even closer to him. Q's heart flew into his throat, he trashed...

Bond looked into his eyes, into those big scared eyes, and suddenly stopped.

He let Q go, stepping away like he burned himself, breathing quick, the sex drive leaving his body. Q panted heavily as he drew his hands toward his chest. He wanted to curl in on himself, but wanted to keep a brave face in front of the agent.

Bond's expression was hard to read. He didn't say a word, just standing there for a moment, then he finally moved.

“I'm sorry,” he said and turned on his heel, heading for the door. It shut behind him and Q realized he made James Bond think he was raping him.

When the truth was that Q just didn't know how to be a functioning human.

In the morning, when he woke up with red eyes and terrible aftertaste in his mouth, he found the bag of muffins still lying on the floor of his living room. He picked it up and sat down with it. Eating them was such a surreal image – just like that, like they didn't go through these twenty four hours with them, like Bond didn't carry them, like he didn't...

Q threw his head back on the backrest and his ear touched something strange. He looked to the side just to realize that the suit jacket Bond came in was still draped over the back of the sofa. He grasped it, moving it into his lap. It smelled like him. Q had a weird reaction to the smell, just like he had to the agent himself. He didn't know what to think about it. He wasn't afraid of Bond, not more than he was angry with him. He was more angry with himself than Bond. And still, Bond was slowly becoming the epitome of desire in his eyes. It started when he found out that he is his James, when he linked the two together and realized that behind the strong mind was a strong body to back it up. Yesterday, it reached a new level... and then Q pushed him away. Because he was scared. Not of Bond, but of the consequences of his actions. Of what would come after. He didn't feel prepared.

He cursed himself for being such a twat. He supposed it didn't matter anymore. He refused Bond, Bond would move on. He wouldn't linger on someone like Q. Not when he could have anyone he chose.

Well, that was just his luck. He always missed out on opportunities because of his own stupidity. But he had to admit that this was at least more fun than being not in love. Even though he absolutely was not in love, right? Because that would be just... swell.

He looked at the jacket still in his hands. It was a very expensive material and cut, he could feel. Maybe Bond would come looking for it. Q looked over the interior, thinking of how Bond was always in a dinner jacket on his missions, and how it could eventually become a part of his armour. He started planning ways of improvement in his head. Maybe when Bond comes looking for it, he would find something better. An enhanced clothing. Intriguing image.

 

 

John and Q's favourite pub was this little place called Ye Olde Mitre hidden near Holborn. Q liked going there during the day with his laptop or a book, and John liked the night atmosphere of a dodgy alley and booze. On a Saturday evening, it was quite full there, and they were sat at a corner table with two pints of lager and crisps.

“I'm not saying I'll stop watching it, just that it's getting a bit ridiculous,” John was saying. Q just shook his head again.

“Just because it's different than the books doesn't mean it's bad. I like to see a different story than I already read.”

“Look, mate,” John raised the glass and took a swig before continuing. “I don't mind the different stories, but we're had three hours out of ten already and the only thing that happened was a bunch of Starks coming back. I'm getting bored of it.”

Q shrugged and drank, looking around at the other locals. He knew a few faces, but he ever talked to maybe two of them. John was more sociable, he many times joked with them and such, but Q didn't have his talent of communicating with total strangers.

John's phone rang once. He took it out, looked at the screen and started grinning.

“Sam,” he explained when he met Q's questioning look. Sam was his new boyfriend, a twenty five year old bartender from West Ham. Q never met him, only saw his photos, which didn't impress him much, but again, John and he didn't share the same taste in men.

“So how is your sex life?” John asked when he put the phone down. “Did you go on that website again?”

Q considered lying, but honestly, he wanted to talk about it with someone for a long time now. So he gulped down half of his bear for courage and nodded.

“The guy you chose,” he said. John's face lit with an expectant expression. “It backfired though.”

“What? Why?!” his smile was replaced with a frown. “Pete, seriously!”

“Not my fault!” Q defended himself.

“So what did he do?”

“Nothing. It was no one's fault. Well, kinda yours, actually,” he joked.

“Mine?” John finished his beer.

“You chose him.”

“I don't get it, what happened? Wait, lemme grab another one.”

John left to get another pint and came back with two. Q finished his and replaced it with the new glass.

“So?” John looked at him questioningly. Q breathed in.

“He turned out to be my colleague.”

John whistled. “That's a good one. So what was the problem?”

“Well... I didn't feel comfortable with him knowing... you know.”

“Are you serious?” John was looking at him like he went crazy. “Pete, how can you ever submit if you feel bad about submitting?”

“I don't feel bad about submitting,” Q shook his head. “It just feels weird with someone I will then see in work, where I am his boss. And that's not the main problem anyway. He's not a relationship type.”

“And? Fuck the guy and move on if that's his desire,” John shrugged.

“I... I would, seriously. But... I don't know him that well to let him...”

“So if I get this right,” John interrupted him, getting the point. “You won't sleep with him because you know him AND because you don't know him well enough? You are mental, man.”

Q looked down on the surface of the table.

“I know,” he mumbled. John just sighed in irritation.

“Look, I have to go, Sam gave me just a few minutes. Why don't you try the website again? Or I'll take you to a bar and you can meet someone. Or!” he was putting his jacket on. “Sam might take you in. We could have a threesome,” his grin was very suggestive and very filthy, but Q just shook his head.

“Mate, you've gotta get out there. I'll take you to Toppers next week.”

He downed the second half of his beer while Q only started on his.

“I'll pee like crazy!” he breathed out when he finished, wiping his mouth. Then he leaned closer to Q. “But he likes that,” he winked and left. Q just shook his head at him with a little smile.

 

Eve's phone rang. She took it out of her bag without stopping in her typing, put it on the table and pressed the speaker phone button.

“Yes?” she said. Bond's voice came out of the little thing.

“He's afraid of me.”

She frowned at the computer screen.

“Bond? Aren't you in Acapulco?”

“Yes, and? Listen, Q's afraid of me.”

Eve checked the time. It was just after ten in the morning, which meant about four AM in Mexico.

“I'm not sure what this is about, but I really doubt that our Quartermaster is afraid of middle aged men,” she said.

“He looked like a deer in the headlights the other night. I might have been too rough on him for the first time...”

Eve stopped typing and switched the phone to silent before pressing it to her ear.

“Bond, what did you do?” she asked seriously.

“I tried to sleep with him.”

“Oh no,” she hid her face in her other hand.

“Don't crap your knickers, the world isn't ending.”

“Then why are you calling me? This seems like a matter of national urgency. If he bombs Acapulco just to get you...!”

“Don't be ridiculous. Actually... no, he won't bomb an entire city to get me. He'll wait. I need to know why he is so scared of me.”

“Well,” she started. “You do handle your guns rather irresponsibly.”

“Eve,” he growled.

“Ok, ok!” she gave up and straightened in her chair, checking if no one was listening in. “Why did you try to sleep with him in the first place? You never shown any interest before.”

“If I tell you, you have to promise not to tell him you know. Or anyone. He'd kill me AND you if he found out.”

“Alright, what do you have me for? Of course I wouldn't...”

“He's the guy from the website. The one who messaged me.”

“Oh my god.”

“Yes. We found out about three months in. Since then, he's been acting like I killed the Queen.”

The door to M's office opened and he motioned for Eve to follow him in. She nodded and he disappeared.

“Look, Bond, I have to go. We'll discuss this when you come back.”

And without waiting for a reply like a normal person, she hung up and hurried after her boss.

In his little room in Acapulco, Bond tossed the phone on the mattress he was lying on and sighed. He couldn't stop thinking about that frightened look in Q's eyes. About how he trashed under him. He felt sick with himself for pushing when the other man obviously didn't want him. How could have he been so blind?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is slightly shorter than those before, but I think very full. Enjoy, my horny babies.

Eve sat next to Bond with a glass of wine and looked at the screen. He's been home for a day, has slept for eleven hours, and immediately after called Eve in to solve the mystery that was his Quartermaster. This time he managed it home without any serious injuries, with just a scrape from a knife on his ribs that was bandaged and healing.

“This does seem a little one sided,” Eve said after a few minutes of reading snippets of their conversations. He didn't show her the erotic parts (which meant a lot of censoring) for Q's sake mostly, so she was only reading their day to day dialogues.

“What do you mean?” he asked her.

“Well, you didn't really answer any of his questions, did you? And when you did, you were lying. He told you quite personal things and when you answered anything, you were as vague as a politician.”

Bond squirmed at the seat uncomfortably.

“What exactly did he tell you?” Eve asked.

“You want me to choose?” he raised his eyebrows at her. She glared. He sighed. “That he hates that I know all of this about him. That it's easy for me to tell him things because I'm not the one who would be tied up. That he doesn't trust me.”

“Oh,” she sat back as if the global warming was just solved.

“Oh? That is the reason why he won't sleep with me? That he doesn't trust me? No one trusts me, I'm a spy.”

She smiled at him in a way mothers smile at their children when they find out that when they fell on their head as a toddler, something really DID go wrong and they will never grow to be a fully functioning being. 

“James, Q wouldn't just be sleeping with you. He wanted to find someone with whom he could lose all caution and be dominated. How can you not see? You need total trust to do that.”

“Eve, I'm not that stupid,” he growled. “I know all this. That's why it took us three months to even meet.”

“And you don't get why he would just recoil from you the minute he found out it was you?” she raised her eyebrows. “James, who do you trust?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

“Exactly,” she went on. “The last time you trusted someone, she broke your heart and let you to die.”

His face went blank.

“This isn't about Vesper...”

“I'm not talking about Vesper. I'm talking about M.”

Now his eyes went cold.

“You don't have anyone in this world who you trust. Now imagine you were to submit to anyone. Even me. Would you do it?”

He didn't have to think about it. He never would.

“Q needs someone who would make him feel safe.”

He looked at the computer, realizing where this is going.

“He needs someone else,” he said, gravely. She smiled at him sadly.

“I'm sorry, but yes.”

 

 

When she left, Bond closed the laptop and thought about his next steps. He had to forget this whole thing and start seeing Q as a professional again, as his colleague. He also had to relieve the tension he's been under for the past several months if he wanted to stop pining after Q, because just the thought of the young man was giving him blue balls. He thought about his options. The website was out of the question, not after this experience. Going out and finding someone sounded good, but he was under a very special kind of pressure – he needed to dom, to put someone on their knees and kick out the image of Q in rope out of his head. He thought he saw him in his mind in every position imaginable, from a nice picture of him in knickers and stockings to his face ruined by tears, semen and piss, red after abuse, coughing after Bond gagged him with his cock. 

Bond cursed when he realized he's been just sitting there, fantasizing about Q, his trousers growing tighter and tighter. He opened the laptop again and started googling. After a while he got up, went to change into dark jeans, white t shirt and a leather jacket, putting on his army boots, and headed out of the flat.

 

Q stood in front of the mirror, sizing himself up and down.

“Isn't it too much?” he asked cautiously. John appeared next to him.

“Don't worry, you look great. How do you feel?”

Q took his time to answer, but in the end, he had nothing to hide from his friend.

“Amazing,” he said. John grinned and Q cracked a smile in answer.

He was wearing a borrowed black long sleeved t shirt that was so tight he could see his nipples, leather trousers that were hard to put on and would be probably even harder to take off, and steel boots he had from his time at uni. He loved those booths, but wearing them for too long hurt, so he only did it on very special occasions. Like this one.

He topped it with his red collar so everyone could see he was a sub, and his hair was slicked back into a very short ponytail. He looked like a Matrix character, to be honest.

“You'll be able to pick a dom with this look,” John said proudly. He himself was wearing lighter boots, but heavier clothing – a fishnet t shirt and red latex trousers. He was meeting Sam at the club and was planning for Q to chat someone up so they would both get laid. Q didn't want to make him even more irritated, so he didn't protest, but he, apart from a part of himself that still hoped, knew that he would get home shortly after John would leave. Because yes, there was a chance he would really find someone and go with them. What what were the chances he would feel comfortable enough with a stranger?

 

The dominatrix at the door welcomed them with an appreciative smile that made Q very aware of his attire, and after a quick check that everything was alright and by the rules of the club, she let them in. The club wasn’t very posh, which Q appreciated. It was well prepared for all its visitors, with a bar and food and tables full of various equipment for public play. Most of the guests were dressed appropriately – latex and leather dominated, but there were exceptions. Some chatting as equals, some in their roles of doms and subs, some at various stages of play, although decent. Q felt a stab of anticipation and panic.

They noticed the new arrivals with a quick glance that some followed by a longer look, and a very few kept looking at them when everyone else lost their interest. Q noticed one straight and one lesbian couple and two single men before John bumped his hand.

“Oh lala,” he said in that quirky way of his that always made Q affectionate. He was looking at someone on the other end of the room. Q looked just as he was saying “That is a right chunk of a man, my friend.”

Q froze. Right chunk of a man that was. And he immediately recognized those dirty blond hair and eyes size too big even though he was with their back to them. He looked incredibly handsome even from behind, which was probably thanks to the tight t shirt showing his muscled arms and back, and the trousers that accentuated his arse.

“Oh my god,” he breathed out in horror. What were the odds. What were the fucking odds?! One night out and Bond is there! And what was worse, one night at a fetish club, with all the temptation of… everything. The flush that he felt when they walked in transformed into a full body heat and very quickly turned sexual.

John was saying something along the lines of Yeah, oh my god fits, but Q wasn’t listening. Because Bond wasn’t alone – well, at least not anymore. Talking to him was a very pretty sub with long brown hair and killer stilettos. He leaned into her space, grabbed her by her collar and pulled her to him, which caused her to lose her balance and catch onto his arms. He growled something into her ear and she nodded. He straightened up, let her go, turned around and stepped towards the exit. Towards them.

“Ah, shame,” John commented the fact that Bond already had a sub for the night. Q braced himself for what had to come, and it came quickly – Bond took two steps and his eyes fell on him.

He froze. The sub, confused, stopped behind him. They were looking at each other from across the room. Q’s heart caught premature arrhythmia. 

John was looking from one to the other like on a tennis tournament.

When Bond finally moved, he headed straight to them as if enchanted. He came to them, but didn’t stop at the distance normal people would, instead made another step so he was towering right above Q, with only a few inches of air parting them.

“Q,” he said.

“Bond,” he replied.

John was watching them, finally understanding. Then a bit spooked. To his credit, Q had to admit that they were a bit weird, just standing there, because they didn’t say much more. Bond was looking him over with a hungry expression that made Q want to satisfy that hunger, and Q felt like a deer in the headlights because he knew he had his chance and he missed it, and doing anything to get Bond now would be desperate and make him feel like a total fool. 

“Were you leaving?” he asked, and his hope for it to be formal went to shit when it came out of his mouth like a plea for him to stay. 

“No,” Bond said immediately. Q noticed John and the sub exchanging looks and a fire ignited in his stomach – he hated that bitch, don’t she dare taking John as well!

And then Bond’s face changed and he stepped back. Q frowned.

“Have fun,” Bond said. He turned to the sub and motioned for her to go with him. They went back to the centre of the club and Bond took a drink from one of the tables.

Q’s stomach fell into his guts. There it was. His stupidity missed him an opportunity. He should have slept with Bond when he wanted him, because this was the agent moving on.

John grabbed his arm and pulled him towards the bar at the far side of the room.

“THAT’S him?!” he asked. Q rubbed his forehead nervously. “You let THAT go? Peter!”

“I know, OK?!” he hissed at his best friend. “Keep it down. He’s hot, I know, and?”

“Oh god,” John looked truly done with him. “Not only is he hot. He is fucking smitten with you! And you’d be all over him if you weren’t… well, you.”

“That is so not true.”

“Oh yes it is. Why are you two not in bed together right now is beyond me.”

“Because… because I fucked it up, OK?” Q lost his temper. “He tried and I got scared and backed up, and now he knows I’m not worth it and has moved on. Good for him.”

“Scared? What are you a maiden before her first sex in the sixteenth century?”

Q glared at John.

“Look,” John tried to reason with him. “All is not lost. You can go up to him now and offer yourself. There is no way he won’t say yes.”

“No.”

John blinked a few times as if his brain short circuited.

“No?” he repeated.

“No,” Q confirmed. “That ship has sailed. Also, there are still reasons why I didn’t sleep with him and they didn’t just disappear because I got horny.”

“But that‘s how sex works!” John whimpered. 

“Yeah, and most of the time that is a bad thing. So I’ll be here, talking to other people, and he will leave with his date,” even saying that hurt a bit.

“Alright then,” John agreed and pushed a glass of wine into Q's hand. “But you WILL talk to other people.”

Q gingerly nodded.

The next half an hour of his life was hell. He was pushed into several conversations, and even though most of the people were nice and tried to make him comfortable, he couldn't relax for the love of him. Maybe if Bond wasn't standing fifty meters from him, acting like his sub was all that mattered to him, he could concentrate on the conversations he was trying to lead. He cursed himself for wanting for Bond to look at him like he did when he saw him in the door, he wanted Bond to forget that girl and come to him... he shook his head, clearing it. No. Where is this coming from anyway?! A few days ago he was shouting at Bond for wanting him, pushed him away, literally, when Bond tried to take him to bed, and now he's what... pining? Ridiculous. He needs to get his shit together.

Halfway through the evening they went to sit down on one of the sofas along the wall – Bond on it, the girl on his lap, and Q felt a stab of envy at how easily seductive she was. He would be staring at them forever if John didn't interrupt him to introduce his boyfriend.

Q turned to face a man younger than him but clearly much more confident. He was shorter than John, dressed in simple black trousers and a grey shirt, with similar boots to Q's and many leather bracelets circling both wrists. Q smiled at him politely and Sam shook his hand with an appreciative look.

“Nice to finally meet you,” said Sam. “Are you absolutely sure you want to stay here all alone?”

Q was absolutely sure he wanted to leave right after John wouldn't be breathing at his neck, so he nodded right when John was saying “He already has an admirer.”

Sam turned to sneer at the man.

“Did I give you a permission to speak?” he snapped and Q realized he's going to be, just as the rest of the club, a part of another of John's favourite public displays. Sam pushed himself against John's body in a military bullying style, sneering him down. “On your knees, bitch!”

John went down like a broken puppet, all too eager. Sam watched him kneel and extended one of his legs to him. “Kiss it!”

John bent down to the strong leathered boot and kissed the tip.

“Lick!” Sam pushed further and John immediately complied, licking the black shiny surface. 

Q looked away. He knew John didn't have any problem showing himself like this, but he knew he would have and that made him squeamish. He looked around the room, his gaze, as always, automatically falling on the agent, and found him staring right at them. His sub was sitting next to him, her head on his shoulder and her eyes on John.

Bond looked from the man on the floor to Q. Q looked down at the boots on Bond's feet. Up. Their eyes met.

And then Bond looked at the sub on his arm and said something. She went down on her knees and...

… and started mimicking John. Q's stomach made a travel south. He quickly looked away as Bond kept his eyes steady on his sub.

Meanwhile, John finished to Sam's satisfaction, and was now getting up. He grinned at Q before Sam slapped his arse and made him walk in front of him out of the club.

Q was alone.

He tried hard not to look at Bond, but the temptation was stronger than him.

Bond had the girl in between his legs on the floor. He was bending to whisper something in her ear, and then he grabbed her hair and yanked her head back and Q gasped, not realizing he was projecting himself into her position until it was too late.

“I could do that to you,” a voice next to him said and he jumped and turned around. An around fifty year old man all clad in leather was standing too close to him. He took an instinctive step back.

“Evening,” he said.

“Oh, how polite,” the man breached his personal space again, this time reaching a hand to cup Q's chin. He shook him off.

“I'm sorry, sir, but...”

“Shut up!” the man took his face into his hand, squeezing his cheeks painfully, his fingers digging into his jaw. “I saw you with that other boy, you like to go on your knees too, don't pretend. That's why you're here, to hunt men like me, so let's say you got one!”

Q was trying to think of the best way to handle this – if he tried to use his limited training on him, he'd most probably be overpowered by sheer strength, but the club had rules and this man was breaking them, so there should be someone to stop him...

“Hands off my sub.”

Q's heart made several absolutely unnecessary movements that he didn't agree on upon purchase. The voice was silent, but deadly. The kind of deadly that made people crap themselves in the field. Bond's growl echoed through his bones as he picked up on the meaning of his words. MY sub.

“He's not your sub!” the man spoke accusingly. “Go mind your own business.”

But Bond was already taking the lither man by his hand and moving him behind himself, protecting him.

“Either you leave, or we leave,” he said. By then, the owner showed up, the dominatrix from before, and she started scolding the man in a tone that suggested he won't be visiting again. Q didn't pay much attention as Bond held him by his frame in a perfect bodyguard style rescue and was leading him out from the room. Before they left, he stopped to look at the sub that gave him her whole evening, but didn't even mouth a sorry. Q didn't care much. His heart was still trying to calm down from a marathon.

He finally caught up with reality when sitting in Bond's car, with Bond driving him home.

“Thank you,” he said and meant it. Bond just nodded.

“That friend of yours just let you there?” he asked steely after a moment.

“Well, it wasn't his fault. He was just being normal,” he mumbled, his voice going down. “It's not his fault I'm not.”

Bond shot him a quick glance.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“Well, I must be the only sub in the history of that place that didn't want to submit to a single person,” he didn't add that there WAS one person he was considering submitting to.

“Trust me, you aren't,” Bond took a turn through orange. “I met many subs who just needed breaking into it so they could relax, or those who lied to themselves, or those who weren't even subs or just didn't know how to sub. And you are certainly not one of those,” he glanced at Q's body, as if accidentally.

Q didn't know what to say to that. He never met anyone who would have the patience to break him in or just wait for him to open up. Even Sarah was too impatient, often treating his insecurities just like John did.

“But you did make it hard for me tonight,” Bond mumbled under his breath, which could not have been missed in the small car.

“How?” asked Q. Bond stopped in front of his house, turned of the engine, and looked at him properly.

“Staring at me like that, all night, made it difficult not to just take you home and shag your brains out.”

Q's breath left him for a younger woman.

He looked at his flat's door. 

“Don't worry, Q,” Bond said more seriously. “I won't try anything. I've had my lesson.”

Q looked at him, not fully understanding. So Bond did want him? But... but Q turned him down and he accepted it. That was... mature. Quite uncharacteristic. 

Q thought about it for a few seconds. He was the one deciding this. And that knowledge made him suddenly breathe easier. Because to be honest, after a night like this, when still felt another man's touch on him, when his feet hurt because of his shoes and he was dead tired, the thought of his bed was too tempting.

“Good night, Bond,” he said and opened the door. “And thank you.”

He got out and shut the door, then walked to his door. Bond only left when he was safely inside.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Attention!   
> SPOILERS  
> This chapter contains angst, injuries and possible heartbreak. It is at the end of the chapter, so if you want to avoid it, stop reading when they get out of the car to go to work. There will be a summary of what happens after in the notes at the end of the chapter.

There was a knock on Q's office door. Q looked up just to see who it was.

“Ah, 007,” he said, ass if nothing has changed since they were just colleagues who saw each other once a month. “I was expecting you.”

He gets up and walks to the door and out into the branch with Bond at his side.

“M has a whole list of things he wants you to learn. I hope you've reserved at least three days for this.”

“I have all the time in the world for you, Q,” Bond says, completely without subtext, which Q appreciates and only nods in acknowledgement.

They walk towards one of the stations, where lies a very complicate device which Q explains is a test bomb. There is a big light bulb next to it that shines bright red if the device detonates, or at least simulates when it would, so Bond will know if he set it off and can try again.

They spent three hours on that thing. Q first wanted to explain how the bomb worked and what Bond should do and what he should avoid, but Bond stopped him before he could get the first sentence out. He looked the bomb over, thought about it and then started guessing all that by himself, with an eighty percent accuracy that impressed Q. After that, he still wasn't happy with himself, so he tried to deactivate it without any assistance. He tried three times, it detonated three times. Finally, he let Q explain why it wasn't so easy.

From then on he tried another seven times, from which only three times were successful. Q finally let him go. The agent was slightly irritated, but the atmosphere of their cooperation was actually surprisingly pleasant. They even cracked a few smiles.

“I will see you tomorrow?” asks Q when they leave the device be. Bond nods, smiles at him and leaves.

Their days carry on being pleasant streams of cooperation. Bond learns new skills for his upcoming missions, tackles new technological issues and inventions, and Q helps him with guidance. He isn't really surprised by Bond's capabilities, he saw his files, but it still keeps distracting him when he realizes how much Bond understands without Q explaining it first to him, and then what level of explanation he can take with no further questions. Bond might be old school, but he keeps up with the new world.

On their third day, Q mentions a new gun that arrived which he's been playing with.

“The new SOCOM 16?” Bond asks with interest. “I wanted to get my hands on that thing for months now.”

Q takes him to the firing range and shows him two prototypes of a large combat rifle. Bond picks it up and starts looking it over.

“Can we shoot it?” he asks. Q smiles.

“We can do anything. Just watch out for the backfire, it's pretty strong.”

Bond looks at him like he just offended him.

“I'm sorry, but I saw a gun fail compilation, you would not believe how stupid people are,” Q defends himself, although he very well knows Bond would never be idiotic enough to let anything happen to him. Bond knows it too and sneers at him.

They go to the booths and Q puts a new target into the moving clips. He sends it as far as it can go and steps back to watch Bond shoot.

In the middle of their session, Eve walks into the shooting range. She waits until Bond is done with the round, and smiles at her boys.

“I see you're having fun,” she says. “Gimme.”

Bond hands her the gun and steps aside. Eve is truly beautiful when she takes the stand and fires, the gun not moving her in the slightest in a way she wouldn't allow. Q catches the look Bond gives her and, again, feels envious that someone can look like this with so little effort.

“When the target isn't alive, you're not half bad,” Bond says when Eve lowers the gun. She doesn't even blink before responding.

“That's because I'm imagining it's you,” she smiles at him sweetly. “Are you coming with us tonight?”

He raises an eyebrow at her.

“Going where?”

“Oh, Q didn't tell you?” she turns to regard the younger man. He winces. “It's his birthday. We're celebrating in Royal. You should come.”

Bond looks at Q.

“If you want me there,” he addresses him.

“Great!” Eve says, smiles brightly, hands Q the rifle and leaves with an air of satisfaction. Q holds onto the gun like a life gard.

“If you don't want me there...” Bond starts, but Q cuts him off.

“No, not at all, I'd be delighted,” he smiles at him, nervously. He loads the gun, then takes a stand.

“Happy Birthday, Q,” Bond says behind him. He hesitates before shooting a round.

 

Royal Vauxhall Tavern was just a few minutes from the MI6 building. Q was meeting Eve and the rest outside and they walked in together. Bond wasn't there, but Q refused to feel sorry. His three technicians and R were there, that was all that mattered, and with Eve at the head of the little group, his friend list was almost complete. He didn't invite John, naturally, because mixing him with any aspect of his work would be just crazy.

They arrived at the tavern and found a big table that seated eight even though Q found a completely alright table for six. Eve insisted on the extra space though, so he let her be in denial.

The night was actually really great. Q didn't normally enjoy nights out, but he had things to talk about with these people, and when Eve came up with a drinking game, he didn't even protest a bit. He told himself it would at least make him forget the regret he felt at Bond not coming. 

And then Bond came.

Q was slightly intoxicated by the time the agent showed up, which was probably the reason for his relieved, big smile. Bond smiled back at him when he saw it, and Q was too drunk to take it back.

“Happy Birthday, Q,” Bond said again. Eve made everyone move so Bond had only one place to sit on the bench where they were seated – right next to Q. “Sorry I'm late,” he said only to Q. “I was looking for a present.”

He reached into his pocket and took out a small piece of paper. He handed it to confused Q.

“It's the recipe for the gingerbread muffins from Costa.”

Q's eyes got bigger and his throat closed because of a huge lump of emotions. He was staring at the folded paper, thinking of all the trouble the agent went into to get someone to give this to him. Those muffins were pre baked in some factory God-knows-where, not in any local shop, and not many people knew or cared about the ingredients in them. But most of all, Q was shocked by Bond's ability to pick the one thing that would actually make Q happy on the baser level, because those muffins will probably go off sale in a few weeks and then he will be able to make them.

“I...” he started, not knowing how to put all of this into a simple thanks. And maybe it was the alcohol making him braver and more aware of his desires, and actually, it was surely the alcohol, it always made him “friendly”... so that was probably the reason why he reached for Bond's neck and pulled him into a kiss.

The table broke into excited sighs and chatter, but he didn't pay attention to them. He was kissing Bond how he always wanted, fully, passionately, and Bond was kissing him back the same way. When they parted, they were slightly out of breath, but Q was smiling and Bond had to smile back.

“I am very happy for you, boys, I really am,” Eve jumped into their moment. “But I'd like to remind you that this is Q's party and he needs to stay here for a while, not bugger off with you.”

Q laughed but turned to her and the evening went on, with just the exception of Q's side pressed against the agent and Bond's hand around his waist.

Bond joined in on their game, but it didn't really have much effect on him. Q, on the other hand, drank maybe one too many, and at midnight, the Quartermaster's mood was so good he no longer seemed to have boundaries. When no one talked to him, he sat in Bond's embrace, with his head turned up and tucked in Bond's neck, breathing in his smell. Bond had a hand in his hair. Everyone was stealing glances of them, and they couldn't care less. Bond was actually proud of how Q clang to him. He's been dreaming about this for too long now not to be satisfied when it happened. And if Q would be in a state to think anything, it would probably be something along those lines.

But Bond also held back. It first came when the younger man's hand creeped close to his crotch, and he gently took it away. It took a huge amount of self control to stay unresponsive when Q tippped his head back just a little more and started filling Bond's right ear with suggestions that made his toes curl.

“You are drunk,” he said as a way of explanation when he stopped him with a hand on his mouth, simultaneously thinking that yanking his hair would be a much better way to shut him up.

“Bond,” Eve called him and he looked up. Eve was also quite drunk, just as everyone else, but she was still the mother hen and he appreciated that in moments like this. “Q wouldn't like knowing he's done something unprofessional in front of his co-workers.”

Bond was thinking that it's really too late for that, but he got what she meant, and nodded. He roused and made him look at him.

“We'll go, OK?” he said. Q nodded and let Bond help him up. He could walk, he wasn't completely pissed, his head was just full of Bond and he couldn't remember why he was such an idiot for all these months. He said his goodbyes, thanked everyone for coming (alright, he might be doing all of this with much more hand gestures and hugs and emotions than he would normally do, but give him a break) and then he was leaving, using Bond's body so he wouldn't bump into things.

Truthfully, he wanted to sleep, but he also couldn't stop thinking about Bond. In the car, he combined those two desires and nodded off on Bond's shoulder, which Bond tolerated because he's been driving in crazier situations, and he woke up when Bond was shaking him in front of his flat.

“You're home, Q,” Bond was saying gently and Q blinked a few times. Bond helped him into the flat.

The door closed. Q wasted no time in turning and pressing himself against the agent, kissing Bond with all the passion of a drunk, horny man. It was messy, desperate, it made Bond wish he wasn't drunk beyond rational thought. But he had still very clearly in mind the last time he's been kissing Q in this flat, and he didn't think he wants to find out what Q's rational mind thinks of this when he wakes up.

So he pushed him away.

“Q,” he said when the genius made an attempt to unbutton his shirt. “You are way too drunk for this. What do you say you go to bed and we'll pick this up tomorrow?”

“But I want you now!” Q all but whimpered. Bond smiled.

“I can see that. But I want you sober.”

He took the younger man to his bedroom and made him strip, which was a very difficult task when the other man tried to turn it into a make out session.

“I need to pee,” Q leaned near Bond's ear and grinned. Bond refuses to let his imagination run with it and turned the other man around.

“Then go.”

Q sighed and unsteadily walked into his bathroom. He didn't close the door and Bond could hear the splashes of his urine against the toilet's insides. He thought that maybe Q let the door open because he thought it would turn the agent on, but this his drunken mind didn't really think through. Bond chuckled.

After Q brushed his teeth and he came back, Bond pushed him into the bed and covered him.

“Good night,” he said.

“Stay,” Q caught his hand when Bond wanted to stand up. He sat down again. Q pulled him closer and made room for him.

Bond sighed, but then complied. He took off his jacket, shoes and trousers, and lay next to him. Q wormed into his space and fell asleep tucked under Bond's arm and his chin. Bond hugged him and fell asleep long after him.

 

Q woke up to the sound of his alarm and something very large moving next to him. He tried to sit up, but the light hit his eyes and he hid his face again. Conveniently, there was just the right space for that – right between his sheets and the body of whoever was with him in his bed.

The alarm quited and the body turned again, strong arm hugging him. He was vaguely wondering who it was since he didn't have anyone in his bed for almost a year, and then the memories of the previous night came rushing in.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed out.

He had half a mind to jump out of the window right then. He's made a complete fool of himself yesterday. And what's worse, not just in front of Bond and Eve, but his freaking team – R, for Christ's sake! And of course, Bond is now in his bed and Q isn't really angry with that, but he didn't want it to happen like this, didn't want to fuck him drunk, if anything, he wanted to remember when they finally fucked, who knows if it's ever gonna happen again...

He turned on his back with his hands covering his face.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

And then he remembered – they didn't fuck. No sex going on in this bed. And Q's confidence dropped to a bare minimum needed for survival. Of course they didn't have sex. Even though he basically climbed Bond yesterday, the older man had no intention of sleeping with him whatsoever.

He started pulling back, realizing how needy he was, hugging Bond like his personal teddy bear.

“I'm sorry, I'm so...”

“Q,” Bond stopped him, physically catching his body and pulling him close again, and kissed him on the mouth. Q was taken by surprise when Bond's body pressed to his as the agent shifted it, covering his Quartermaster, pushing his last breath out of him in a rush. It wasn't more than a lazy morning snog, Q could feel that in the air. Still he felt light headed and if his head wasn't pounding and their breath wasn't smellier than a swamp, he'd be probably sporting a very urgent erection right about now.

When Bond eased up and let him breathe, his confusion reached new highs. But he couldn't bring himself to ask.

“I don't suppose you have a spare toothbrush?” Bond asked and his low morning mumble travelled all through Q's spine.

“Actually,” he rasped. “I have a three pack.”

Bond smiled at him, planted one last kiss on his lips, stood up and went to the bathroom. After Q got over the loss of his presence, he sat up to watch him walk. Bond was ridiculously handsome. Just in his shirt and boxers, hair spiked in all directions, Q felt a physical pull, like he was in love just with the sight of him. He wondered when that started. Maybe just after he fell in love with the mind and heart...

He shook his head. He didn't LOVE Bond. He felt affection. Actually, he felt much more than that, but it wasn't love, he knew that. He was intrigued by the man. Slightly addicted to his dominant nature. Very attracted to him sexually. But love was something more complex, something you don't fall into after a few kisses and some tension. Fortunately for them.

Bond closed the door behind himself, which itched something in Q's memory, but nothing made any sense. The door opened after a while, but Bond didn't come out, so Q stood up and went to join him. That something itched even more.

He found the agent brushing his teeth with a new toothbrush, and Q wasn't even surprised he found it so quickly in the mess that was Q's bathroom. He took his toothbrush, put a blob of toothpaste on it, ran it under the water and stuck it into his mouth, quickly working a foam. He also needed to pee, but he'll wait until Bond would be gone to...

He sucked in a panicked breath. The foam went right up his nose through the worst possible entrance and he started coughing vigorously, bending over the sink. Bond's hands were immediately on his back, one caressing and one patting, his voice in his ears, words too broken by Q's coughing to make sense.

When he finally caught his breath and drank a few gulps of water, the pain receded a bit.

“I...” he started speaking, extremely embarrassed. “Did I offer you to watch me pee?!”

A beat, and then Bond chuckled.

“Yes, that was rather an interesting experience,” he said. Q looked at him in disbelief.

“That's a way to put it,” he heaved. His face must have been totally red. Bond was smiling at him rather affectionately.

“How bad is your head?” he asked when Q straightened up.

“Right now worse then ever,” he said in a broken voice.

They finished brushing their teeth and Q asked Bond to leave with red ears. The agent walked to the door, tentatively catching the handle.

“Should I close these, or...?” he asked. Q glared.

“Fuck off, 007.”

Bond laughed and closed the door behind himself.

“I didn't know you're into watersports,” Bond said when Q made them breakfast. He was at the table with a cup of coffee and Q was finishing the toasts.

“I'm not,” he waved his hands. “I was just trying to make you want me.”

Bond smirked.

“Well, surely an interesting technique. But you don't need to do that to make me want you. I'm already spending most of my days fantasizing about how to break you.”

Q looked at him. The statement hung between them like a damp towel, like that intense look Bond was giving him.

“But you didn't,” he said.

“You were drunk.”

Yes, yes he was. And sleeping with a drunk man was probably some type of a very unethical thing for which Q was very glad, because... well, Bond deserved his whole, undivided attention. Not a sloppy quickie, but a deliberate, long scene where he makes the older man see how good he can be. A scene of which Q will remember every last detail.

“Thank you,” he said. Bond just nodded.

They ate a bit. Q could only make it past half a toast before his stomach made some very ill advised movements and he has to take a break. Bond ate more, but without much appetite.

“When I tried to seduce you,” he suddenly spoke up, seemingly about something that's been bothering him for a long time. “Back when all this started, here in your flat. You were scared. You were afraid of me.”

Q looked up. Bond's face was closed off, unreadable. His defence mechanism kicked in.

“I was never afraid of you, James,” he said in earnest. He never wanted Bond to think that. “I was... afraid of what it was coming to. I was scared because I didn't know you that well and...”

He sighed, then took in a big breath.

“When I was a fresher, years ago, mind you, I hooked up with a guy. He wanted to try bondage, but you can imagine an eighteen year old boy with rope, it was a terrible combination. We knew each other for about a month when he tied me up.”

He looked up to see Bond's reaction and found him much paler than he was before. That was when he realized that Bond was thinking murder.

“Oh, no, he didn't rape me or hurt me,” he said quickly. It didn't totally put Bond at ease, but at least he unclenched his fists. Q went on. “He wasn't twice nice. It was a bit messy and I wished I had my hands free, and what's worse, it made me question if I really was a sub after all my fantasies, when my first and only experience was a failure. And then came Sarah and she took her time, and I knew that yes, I was completely happy being dominated, just not by the wrong people. That's why I can't trust new Doms. That's why I backed away when you tried to dominate me. Not because I was afraid of you. Just cautious.”

Bond felt like he didn't properly breathe for the last few months. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his face, and thanking God.

“Well,” he said when he came down from his bliss. “I can work with that.”

Q smiled at him.

“I think that it will be less work than you think now.”

Bond's smile was predatory. He hooked his leg under Q's chair and pulled it towards him.

“Are you sure you have to go to work?” he asked. Q knew what he meant, but didn't play along.

“I wish I didn't, but staying in wouldn't help anything. I don't think I can even get an erection,” he rubbed at his forehead. The waves of pain were thumping on his nape and temples and practically everywhere else in the rhythm of his heart.

“In that case I'll give you a ride,” Bond eased from his sex mode into his work mode. Q appreciated it.

“Hopefully this headache will leave soon,” he said when they stood up to take their jackets. “I would hate to keep you waiting.”

Bond hugged him from behind.

“You know, in the future, the peeing part is still an option,” he purred into his ear. Q made a face.

“You actually like that?” he asked even though he knew Bond did. They did talk about it, months ago, when they had no idea who the other one was.

“What's there not to like?” asked Bond.

“I have a list,” Q said jokingly.

“Like you won't do it if I really want you to,” Bond grinned and let him go. They walked out of the flat. Q didn't bother answering.

Of course he would.

 

 

The ride to the River House was uneventful. Q tried not to stare at Bond too much, but the other man was even more captivating than ever now that Q wasn't scolding himself for liking him. In the morning sun, with the crisp white, wrinkled shirt, in his element, surrounded by the beautiful interior of an expensive car, Bond was a sight to behold.

They parked in the underground car park and before he knew it, Q was grabbed by his shirt collar and five inches from Bond's face, breathing quickly from the shock.

“Drink at least four pints of water today,” Bond said, looking him over. “And take some painkillers. I want you in a tip-top shape when I pick you up in the evening. Understood?”

Q quickly nodded and Bond smiled at his obedience. He pulled him even closer and kissed him roughly. Q whimpered and pressed closer, which wasn't easy in the little car. Bond's right hand moved lower and his palm cupped the bulge in Q's trousers.

“I guess your head isn't that bad anymore, is it?” he asked when he broke the kiss. Q was panting. Bond didn't even break sweat. “I can't have you going to work like this. Your erections are now mine, no one else's. Isn't that right?”

Q nodded again and then yelped when Bond's palm tightened too strongly around his clothed length.

“How?” Bond demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Q said. It somehow felt right to call him that. It felt good. Like coming home.

“What would you do if I tightened the grip?” Bond asks and Q's eyes grow bigger. “Would that solve the issue?” Bond pulled him even closer, making Q half straddle him. His head was touching the ceiling. “Would you just become even more aroused?” those eyes looked right into his, his voice going from playful to serious. “Or would that be too much?”

Q was staring at him, unable to answer. He had no idea and he wanted to find out.

But Bond meant that last question, so he tried to find his voice.

“I... I don't know, sir. If you do it, I'll find out.”

Bond's laughter was delighted (and delightful). He drew his hand back.

“What WOULD make you lose your erection, I wonder. If I called your boss? Or would that just make you more excited, to talk to M on the phone while I squeezed your balls?”

Q closed his eyes. The embarrassment he felt at that thought didn't help. He signed it to his long lasting desire to publicly show off his Doms.

“Or would just the good old thinking of your grandmother help?” Bond laughed.

“I'm not sure if anything would help while you're looking at me,” Q confessed. “Sir.”

Bond smiled again, finally releasing his shirt.

“Something will have to. Think of the errands,” he advised and opened his door.

They exited the car, Q disappointed and frustrated, Bond smug.

“Always a pleasure, Quartermaster,” he said with a grin. Q glared at him, a clear sign the game was over.

They walked up the stairs into the morning sun. There used to be a lift that could take them straight into the building, but after the attacks, security has been strengthened. Q wouldn't need to go to the building at all if he didn't owe M an explanation of one of the cock ups from the day before, and Bond decided that now he's there, he can as well go see Eve.

They walked towards the entry guarded by two security men with automatic rifles hanging from their shoulders, and pulled out their staff cards. The guys stopped them for a routine check, each taking one aside to pat him down. That was also the reason why Bond left his gun with the whole holster in the car, knowing that if there was an emergency in the building, he'd have more than enough opportunities to arm himself.

It did not prepare him for this.

It was so quick Q never quite understood it. Suddenly there was a fourth person between them, opening the large door, in a baseball cap and a big hoodie. The security guys called after him and they all moved to stop him. Since Q was the closest, his hand touched his shoulder first.

The man turned and in one swift motion stabbed a knife right into Q's guts.

Bond shouted, grabbed the man...

...falling onto the pavement, Q could see the quick, multiple movements of the attacker's hand, before the sound of firing rifle reached his ears and the man's dead body fell to the ground. Bond was quick to follow, somewhat slower, more like lying down next to Q, or maybe that was just the way time felt right now, because Q was in such a shock he didn't even feel the pain, just the hot blood running through his fingers where he clutched his abdomen. He saw red sea flowing out of James, through his clumsy fingers, as he lay there, the crispy white shirt ruined. Beautiful, Q thought. It was all strangely beautiful.

And his heart hurt more than his wound, because those blue eyes were so much more intense when surrounded by red, and James was reaching after him and he was reaching after James, and their bloodied fingers touched just before their bodies were lifted. Suddenly people where all around them, white coats that were quickly soaking in their blood. They were carried into the building and into Medical, all while Q's shock was leaving him and the pain was getting worse and worse, his whole world narrowing down to the agony in his guts.

He lost consciousness seconds after he was placed on a bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who skipped the ending: our boys went to the front door, where they were met by the security. Because of the bombing in Paris and Brussels, the security measures are very strict now, and James didn't take a gun because he knew he couldn't take it into the building, and because he knew the building is full of them anyway in case of need. What he did not expect was the terrorist who tried to use them as a cover and get unnoticed into the building. When they stopped him, he stabbed Q once and Bond several times. Our boys are bleeding and on their way to medical, holding hands.


	6. Chapter 6

He opened his eyes.

The stab of pain the light was causing him made him quickly shut them again.

Slowly, he blinked them open again, getting used to the white surroundings. His head hurt, his mouth had the worst after taste, his body felt like a cloud of poisonous gas. He tried to sit down, but the simple preparation of his muscles to do so made him gasp in pain.

That pain helped him resurface from his confusion. Slowly, he started remembering. The morning sun, the cars around them, Thames behind their backs, the security men...

… Bond.

He moved his head clumsily to see the walls of a hospital room. He was attached to an IV tube and a beeping monitor reading his vitals. No Bond.

He started patting the bed around him until his fingers grazed over a small remote control with a cable directly leading to the wall. He pressed the red button several times, his heart racing. Another try to sit up, painful, but he could do it, he could...

Strong hands were pinning him to the bed suddenly.

“You will tear your stitches!” the nurse's voice was urgent and firm. He gave up and slumped on the bed, his stomach on fire.

“James...” he tried to say, his throat too dry to cooperate.

“I will call for the doctor and he will explain everything, alright, sweetheart?” and there she went, out of the room.

It took five minutes until the doctor came and the morphine kicked back in, and it felt like an eternity, even though Q's rational side (which was slowly coming back to him) was telling him that an actual doctor making time for him was surprising. That made him question as to WHY would he need a doctor tell him something and not the nurse. Hopefully, it's because he's MI6, not because Bond is... or maybe he, Q, is dying. That would be alright.

“Mister Boothroyd?” the doctor called him when he stepped into the room, using the cover name Q inherited from his predecessor. “How are you feeling?”

“Like someone stabbed me,” Q said sarcastically. “How is Bond?”

The Doctor checked his card and vitals while talking.

“Mister Bond is after a surgery. Resting. You should too.”

“What's wrong? Why are you here? Why did he need a surgery?”

The doctor stood above him, clasping his hands.

“Don't worry, today is an especially calm day and the nurse wasn't familiar with your case. Your colleague has taken four stab wounds, and the knife punctured a bowel in one place, which has caused a septic shock. He has survived though and is now resting, as I said.”

There was something else, something in the way he kept saying that, that made Q suspicious.

“You are not telling me something.”

The doctor watched him for a while.

“Mister Bond is currently in a coma.”

Q's face was drained of all the remaining colour. Coma.

“Will he wake up?” he asked without any breath to support his voice.

“That is, alas, something we cannot predict. With the history your colleague has, though, I can only guess that he will pull through it.”

“Can I see him?”

At this, the doctor had to think a bit longer, studying the man in the bed.

“I think we can manage that. We could even put you in the same room.”

“Yes!” Q jumped after the offer like a hungry wolf. “Yes, please, that would be great. Thank you.”

The doctor nodded.

 

They moved his bed through several corridors and into a slightly bigger room about an hour later. Bond was connected to several machines, tubes hanging from his body, and Q wanted nothing else but to touch him, to feel his pulse, the heat of his body, to make sure he was alive. But his bed was left too far away to reach his, and he could only dream about getting up. He was lucky, the knife only grazed by his kidney, not leaving any damage, and his bowels were intact as well, so he was looking at full recovery from a flesh wound. Bond was a different case. The toxins that were released into his bloodstream when his bowel was torn caused his body to go into a shock and now he was fighting an infection, fortunately successfully. They were lucky to receive immediate medical help, but there was only so much the doctors could do, and now Bond had to fight by himself, with just the help of medication.

Eve came to see them every day. She talked to Q, tried to take his mind off Bond, but the genius' brain was having troubles concentrating on anything but his agent. He did, however, pay attention when she explained why they were attacked. The man had a bomb strapped to his chest. ISIS. It was the biggest luck that the security man shot him in the head and not anywhere else, because then they'd all be dead, the whole building and surrounding areas.

After five days, he could sit up. After eight, he could walk. That was when they released him from hospital care, moved his bed, and after a long and tiring argument brought him a chair where he could sit. It was against the rules and against Eve's better judgement, but he stayed. The bed was moved back in after he spent a night on the chair.

Even when M requested he come back to work. That was two weeks in, when his wound was sealing and toilet visits were no longer making him wish he was never born.

“Q, this isn't helping either of you,” Eve was begging him. “Your branch needs you. And you need your branch. You haven't eaten properly in two weeks!”

He didn't answer, looking at Bond's unmoving face.

“Look, Q, he will be alright,” she stepped closer to him and made him look her in the eyes. “He's been in a coma thrice already. It's his body's way of dealing with shock. Everyone's body, actually. Doesn't mean he'll stay that way.”

“And what if he does?”

She frowned.

“If he does, will you stay with him until you die?”

He glared at her. She sighed.

“Q, be reasonable.”

“Yes, Q, be reasonable.”

Their eyes shot wide and they both looked at Bond. The agent's eyes were half open, looking at them with a dazed expression, his voice rasped and unused.

“James!” Q breathed out in disbelief. 

“See?” Eve was grinning wildly next to him. “I told you.”

 

James' vital functions were stable, his body clean from infections, his wounds healing slightly slower than Q's. Q could walk short distances by now. James needed help getting into the car the second day.

They were driven into James' flat because the residue hair from Q's cats (who have been living with John for now) was too much of a risk at this stage for both of them. Eve made a trip to the shop and brought enough food to last them for a week.

During that whole time, none of them addressed the fact that somehow they were now staying at the same flat together. They all thought of it at one point or another, once even all at the same time, but each one of them signed it off to the injuries. Yes, Bond was known to be a lone wolf even on the verge of dying, but it somehow felt right that Q would be with him this time. He's been with him so far.

What Eve didn't know and Bond refused to think about was the fact that James called Q to him the last time he was seriously injured. Risking his safety and the reputation he had with himself, he asked a stranger he felt attached to to come to his house and be with him when he was poorly. And now they were in a similar situation again, finally, where they cared for each other, and Q wouldn't let the Queen tear him from James.

The door closed behind Eve. James was sitting on the sofa, his expression betraying he was still in pain, and probably a great deal, since he normally could walk around MI6 as if he didn't have something broken or torn. Q was trying not to show his own pain as he was stocking the fridge. He had to physically push Eve out to do this. She did so much for them, he didn't want her to be their slave for the next week or so. Delivery existed, he said. She can visit them in a few days. She can call first.

“Q, stop it and come sit down, you're in no state to run around like this,” James said tiredly.

“I'm fine,” Q gritted his teeth.

“No, you're not. Come here, show me.”

Q sighed, but went. He had to leave a realm of things he can lean on and enter the vast space between the kitchen and the sofa, which was, frankly, quite dangerous with an abdomen wound. Finally he reached the coffee table in front of James and lifted his shirt.

James was looking at approximately two inches wide sealed cut. The redness was receding, but still there. The stitches were pulled out, but Bond knew there were eight of them and that the wound must have been about as deep as all of his. Q might have not been fighting his fight, but he was in no way alright.

James reached out his hand and gently pulled the younger man to him. He pressed his lips to the cut, which made Q shiver under his hands. Q's hands circled his head and neck, tenderly cradling him close, and they stayed like that for a long moment.

“This was the most pleasurable coma I've head,” James said, surprising Q.

“You rate them?” he asked. 

“Normally, there's not much to rate. You know that people in comas can hear everything that goes on around them, right?”

“I always thought it's a myth.”

“It isn't. Every time I was under, I was aware of everything. It creates these images in your head, mostly thanks to drugs, I guess, and I've heard that those images can be nice if you are with someone you like or love. And this was the first time I had the opportunity to find out it's true.”

He looked up into Q's astonished eyes.

“And every time you said it I wanted to scream it back at you. I trust you too, Q.”

Q swallowed, trying to push the uneasiness that precedes crying away. He succeeded, willing his eyes to stop tearing and his nose hurting, and bent down to kiss Bond wholeheartedly. 

The kiss had to be broken when he couldn't stand anymore. He lowered himself on the armrest with a painful wince and claimed Bond's mouth again, stroking his neck and shoulders.

“Q,” James mumbled after a while. “We need to have the talk.”

Q refused to let him go, grumbling into the kiss like a child.

“Q,” Bond's voice carried a warning. Q made a move to break the kiss, but then changed his mind at the last second. Bond's hands came up, seized Q's wrists and he pulled back as much as his neck would allow.

“I will not be provoked until we had the talk,” he said firmly but softly, looking Q in the eyes. The younger man sighed but involuntarily nodded.

“We did have it already, though,” he said, not trying to argue, just reminding James that they used to talk about their limits back in the web days.

“Yes, but that was mostly in relation to me doing things to you. The game tactic has changed. Sit by me.”

Q frowned in confusion and sat down on Bond's other side so they were on the same level.

They talked for almost half an hour. About all their limits, preferences, how they reacted to what, what they never tried, what they would like to try. They even managed to keep it all professional and not start making out in the middle of a sentence. That was probably thanks to the injuries, they kept them both in check.

“I know that you will feel the need to care for me and I will let you,” James said. “But that isn't a part of your submitting. I never wished to make you a slave, I don't want to control your personal life in any way.”

“And I never wanted to be one. I also can't imagine you picking up my clothes every morning or dictate my diet,” Q snickered. James smiled.

“But I completely own you in a sexual way,” he said. That declaration went straight to Q's lower regions.

“I don't want you to be a hole to fill,” Bond continued. “I don't want you to serve me when you don't want to. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Q already knew that when James was asking that question, he wanted a confirmation of submission.

“Good,” James leaned back on the sofa, managing not to let out how much it hurt. “Shame I can't try you out now. Although there are things you could do for me...” he let his gaze linger on Q's body, slowly running it up and down. Q straightened in anticipation and under the gaze. “... but I'm too tired for this now,” James snapped suddenly and started getting up. Q's disappointed expression didn't go past him, but the Quartermaster quickly stood as well, helping him to the bathroom.

They brushed their teeth. They didn't even bother trying to shower. Fortunately, their wounds were left out in the open now, without bandages, and with no need of disinfecting, so that was one less worry.

“Could I borrow something to wear to bed?” Q asked when they walked into the bedroom.

“No. You don't need anything,” Q looked at him and saw him grinning. “Strip.”

Q obediently followed the order, undressing first his shirt then trousers, and then, propped by Bond's raised eyebrows, his underwear and socks. He was blushing now, shyness almost overpowering him. It was a very long time since he completely revealed himself.

“Come undress me.”

Q stepped to the agent and started by unbuttoning his shirt. He feasted on the sight of his pectoral muscles and scarred shoulders as he pushed the cloth off of them. His stomach was a mess of red scars that Q knew ran as deep as his, but even though they penetrated muscles, they couldn't completely hide the shape Bond was in. Q carefully lowered to his knees. Before continuing, he very gently kissed the scars and looked up to see Bond looking down on him. He then pulled the sweats and boxers down and Bond stepped out of them.

The mood was broken when they had to move. They truly resembled an eighty year old couple, one of them sitting down on the bed helping himself with an outstretched hand, the other one first getting up and then doing the same with just a little more grace.

Finally they were lying in bed, covered by Bond's black sheets (if Q could think of much, he would be surprised that they were simple cotton, even though it fit to the rest of the flat. Still, he thought Bond would care about his comfort in bed).

“James?” Q asked tentatively. He somehow got used to sleeping on his back, but it still wasn't his favourite position.

“Hm?”

“I can be submissive outside sex, right? Not in a slave way, just...”

Bond covered his mouth with his big palm and turned his head to whisper in his ear.

“What do you think?” he breathed out in a low rumble and Q knew that with Bond, there was no other way but to surrender to his dominant presence.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so close to the ending. I am not sure if the next chapter will be final because I still have some smut in mind, so maybe you'll get a ninth complimentary chapter on the house. We'll see. But the plot ends next chapter.  
> Also, I know that the first few chapters had an issue with the tenses so I read the whole thing before I submit it now. Sorry about the beginnings though. It's because I'm too used to writing scripts now and forget myself (scripts are always in present tense).  
> Enjoy :*

“Don't be such a child, John,” Q said into his computer. He was lying down on the sofa with his legs propped on the table, talking to his best friend on Skype. One of his cats, Frosty, a beautiful white angora with big green eyes, was perched on John's keyboard, her fur filling half the screen.

“I'm hardly being a child,” John's disgruntled voice carried through the speaker. “Your cats are a dating disaster. Not even talking about everything else they do! I've got cat hair EVERYWHERE. And they smell! And jump on everything warm! I didn't see my computer as a whole in over two weeks.”

“I know, John, I live with them,” Q was snickering. Bond came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair and Q's attention was redirected to his naked chest. Bond sat next to him with a grunt.

“You shouldn't have, at least not alone,” he said silently.

“I'm not eighty, Q, and I can asses the risks of having a shower,” Bond told him mildly. 

“Are you two enjoying your catless day?” John's slightly vicious voice cut through to them. Q smiled.

“Yes, we are, actually.”

John sneered.

“So how long will these monsters stay here?” he asked.

Q looked at James, hesitant. James returned his look calmly, knowing that Q was deciding when he could leave, and that he probably didn't want to leave but knew that they can't just jump into living together...

The logistics must have been really hard on the poor boffin.

“We'll see,” he answered John's question finally. Q blinked, then turned back to the screen.

“I hate you both. And this stupid cat! I can't see shit, are you two naked?” he started fighting with Frosty, trying to get him off the keyboard. After a bit of fuzz, the call ended when he accidentally pushed something, or maybe it was Frosty's paw.

James quickly shut the notebook so he couldn't call again, and turned to Q.

“I like the naked idea.”

Q smiled, but it was more of a polite smile than a heartfelt one.

“Q, unclench. What's going on?” Bond didn't want to make assumptions, even though he had a pretty good idea of what was in Q's head.

“Do you even want me here?”

His voice was steady and slightly exasperated – Bond supposed he has been thinking about this a long time, probably since even before Bond was released from the hospital.

“Do you think I'd have problems telling you if I didn't?” he asked. He put a a hand on Q's outer thigh and pulled him closer, just as much as their stomachs allowed. “I thought my reputation preceded me. I take what I want, Q. And now I want you here. You can cook and keep me warm at nights. And you're hot.”

“No, I'm not,” Q laughed sadly as if there was nothing more stupid than that idea.

“Yes, you are,” Bond looked him in the eyes seriously. “I don't sleep with people I don't find hot. Why do you think I tried to fuck you since the moment I saw that photo? I have to admit you hide it well under clothes...” he slid his hand up his thigh and under his t shirt.”But I've been haunted by the images of you in certain...” the hand caressed Q's ribs and went up to his chest, playing with a nipple. “... positions,” he looked him in the eyes with his best seductive eyes (he's trained). Q was biting his lower lip. Bond leaned in and bit it for him.

“I'll show you how beautiful you are. Strip and sit on the table, facing me.”

Q hesitated.

“James...” he started uncertainly, but Bond raised his hand to his face and stroked his cheek in a calming gesture.

“Q, look at me,” he waited until the hazel eyes were focused on his. “You'll be fine. We'll start slow. I'm not gonna fuck you. I really want to,” he cracked a smile. “... but I can't.”

Q smiled nervously, looking down at Bond's stomach reflexively.

“But I think we waited a long time for this and we both deserve it. So, will you be a good boy for me?”

Q blushed, but his mouth was taken by a little involuntary smile that Bond knew was a good sign.

He sat back and watched as Q took of his t shirt, trousers and boxers, and sat as instructed, mere inches from the sofa, his knees bumping into Bond's. His blush was spreading over his body, and as much as Bond liked that, he was looking forward to Q when he loses all his shyness and embraces his sexuality. He was determined to bring him to that state.

“Spread your legs and lie down.”

Q took in a deep breath and then did so, landing quite clumsily. His wound was on the best way to full recovery, but not even painkillers could make it completely numb. He thought about what he has to look like, when even his healthy self hadn't much to offer, but he would be a fool to fight Bond.

Besides, being on display like this was starting to affect his nether regions.

“You'll do exactly as you're told,” James' voice reached his ear, its silky rumble making him even more excited. “And don't hold back. I want to hear you.”

“Touch yourself,” was his first order. Q obediently dropped one hand into his crotch and started stroking his hardening length. He let out a small sigh at the roughness of his touch.

“Look at me.”

Q turned his head to see over the side of his body without straining his abdominal muscles, and sucked in breath at the sight Bond was offering. He let the towel part and lie at his sides, and was palming his erection. This was the first time Q saw it – he used to send James pictures when he did something like rope harness, but James was above dick pics. Now Q could see it in its beauty and his mouth watered. It was slightly bigger than him, thick, with veins running along the shaft and the foreskin pulled down and showing a head glistening with precum. 

Q's hand sped up on his own cock. Bond grinned.

“This is how hot you are,” he said, his hand much slower, savouring every second. “Now play with your balls.”

Q did, closing his eyes, focusing on the sensations coursing through his body.

“Squeeze.”

Without thinking, without hesitation, he did, only catching up with his head after a shock of pain made him gasp.

“Don't let go,” James' voice rung in his ears despite the pain. “Stroke your cock.”

Q did as told and his whole body tried to curl up on itself. He couldn't decide which was stronger, if the pain or pleasure, both mixing in high intensity, making him moan loudly.

“Let go.”

He did, his moans even louder when the pain slowly left him and the pleasure remained. He started bucking up into his hand.

“Finger yourself. Lick your fingers first.”

Q stuck his fore and middle finger into his mouth and sucked around it for a while, losing himself in the act until James reminded him with a breathy “Q”. He stopped sucking his fingers and moved them down, pushing them both into his hole at once, hissing at the sudden intrusion but too eager to care. He was still being washed over by waves of embarrassment, making his whole body even hotter, but it was fuelling his arousal. Something about being embarrassed and on display like this in front of a man like James was giving him a full body shiver.

He was getting closer to an orgasm every second. His hands were speeding up their rhythm and he was moaning louder and louder. Suddenly a large hand caught his wrist, pulled his fingers out of him, and thicker fingers replaced them. He was on the edge of cumming when Bond gave one of the cruellest orders yet.

“Slap your dick.”

He whimpered from frustration, but did as told. His body coiled in pain and he bit his lip, his pained cry escaping his mouth non the less. His orgasm slipped from him like smoke.

“Go on, jerk off,” Bond's voice was breathy and low, closer than before. He was still working on Q's arse and Q knew that it wouldn't take long to get him on edge again, and he knew Bond would want to prolong his pleasure/suffering as long as possible.

He did it four times. In the end, Q was a sobbing mess, his cock was aching and leaking so much precum it was substituting lube, his stomach was hurting from all the straining, but by this point he didn't care about that at all. Bond's four fingers were deep in him, grazing his prostate on each thrust in, and he was begging him for release with loud moans.

And then the fingers withdrew and he mewled in disappointment.

“Hands off,” Bond said and the sounds of protest grew louder, but Q complied.

“Come here,” came the next order. He sat up, wincing in discomfort, and opened his eyes to see an image that sent another jolt down into his cock, which visibly moved, trying to get even harder, if that was even possible. Bond noticed and smiled, visibly drinking in Q's affection. He was leisurely stroking his full, glistening cock with one hand and fondling his balls with the other, his chest covered in a prominent blush. Q licked his lips, thinking about what it would taste like if he licked the sweat off of him, even imagining kissing the wounds, tasting the old blood.

He very ungraciously pushed himself from the table and landed on the couch, but didn't have the time to start kissing his body as he wanted to. Bond very quickly grabbed his attention by snatching his chin, and he was made to look into his eyes.

“Can you go on all fours?” the agent asked him. Q nodded. Bond didn't push for a verbal answer, instead pulled him by the chin into his crotch. Q braced himself on James' thigh and swallowed half of his cock at once.

It was a long time since he gave someone a blowjob. His throat stopped him at first, so he started playing with his tongue, sucking the head, grazing the underside with the tip of his tongue... Bond's hand was in his hair, gripping a fistful of curls, and his other hand stroked Q's back until his fingers found his hole again, making him moan. Then Q tried his ultimate trick. He angled his throat, faked yawning, and swallowed almost the whole length.

James groaned.

“If you don't cum before I do, you don't cum at all today,” he said and started plunging his fingers deep into the younger man. Then the fist in his hair tightened and he started forcefully moving Q's head on his cock, fucking himself into the hot, wet depth.

Q was gagging, his prostate was massaged on every inward thrust, his throat was on fire, and he was moaning from the overwhelmingness of it all. Bond had his head thrown back, the spasms of Q's throat and the vibrations of his vocal cords doing miracles, bringing him to the edge quickly despite the ache in his stomach, which was quickly turning into a burning pain. He kept targeting Q's prostate, and even though Q was a second from fainting a few times, he had half a mind to watch him carefully for signs of too much.

Finally his building orgasm erupted from him. He pulled Q off of his cock, pumping it quickly, and on Q's face, already drenched in tears, sweat and snot, landed streams of cum, some going into his open mouth.

Bond sighed deeply and withdrew the fingers from Q's arse, then pulled him up to a kneeling position, looking his face over, still panting.

“God, you're hot,” he murmured. Q opened his eyes. He was still horny, his cock standing red and throbbing between his legs, his face and hair a wet mess, and Bond regretted the limitations of his body.

“Go have a shower,” he told him and the young man whimpered, knowing that the agent would probably keep his promise. Bond confirmed his worries when he said: “You can touch yourself, but no cumming.”

Q nodded, sighing internally, and stood up on shaky legs. He made it through the shower quickly, because the warm water was torturing him, his head still replaying James' words, actions, the smell of his sweat and cum...

When he walked out of the bathroom, his cock was leading him. Bond has cleaned himself with his towel and now smiled from the couch, completely naked, when he saw him.

“Come 'ere,” he called after him lazily and Q walked the short distance to the couch and folded on it. Bond pulled him closer and kissed him gently.

Q melted into the kiss, slightly disappointed that the scene is over, but glad that he had a satisfied and affectionate dom at his hands, and proud that he was the reason why he was that way.

James kept kissing him for long minutes, leisurely making his way from his mouth to his jaw, neck, shoulder, chest, and then his lips again before he would get any ideas. Q revelled in the domesticity of it, realizing that this was intimacy just for the closeness, not a sexual reason, and that made it all even better, even though his mind was still set on release. So, to make it easier for him, when James allowed it, he hid his face in the crook of the older man's neck, breathing in his slightly sweaty scent mixing with the shampoo from his previous shower, and breathed deeply, trying to think about the killing of elephants and global warming and Trump's hair and whatnot, willing his erection away. It proved to be a challenge, because not even Putin's naked torso was disgusting enough in the face of Bond's presence, his hand on Q's thigh, thumb stroking languidly, his breath in his hair.

His phone started ringing, startling him from his position, and he realized that minutes have passed since he laid on his dom's shoulder. Bond bent down with a grunt and fished Q's phone from the pocket of his jeans lying somewhere on the ground, then sat back and picked up without a look in Q's direction.

“Yes?” he rumbled and Q settled down again to listen to his voice. To think that once upon a time he had such torn thoughts about it, when he tried to fight enjoying it, then when he just enjoyed it without thinking much of anything more, and then when he felt so tempted by it and fighting that temptation so hard. And now he could relax and let it wash over him.

“He's here,” Bond said to the phone, and Q recognized irritation in his voice. He wondered who was calling. If Bond knew them. He wondered what would the other person think of another man picking up his phone and speaking for him, and realized he liked the idea. He wanted everyone to know.

“I'll tell him,” Bond hung up and put the phone down next to him. Then he turned his attention to Q, subtly. “That was Mallory. He wants you back in MI6 in an hour.”

Q blinked several times, as if waking up. James let him sit up and watched as he slowly came to himself, abandoning the subspace and forcefully putting on a layer of professionalism, prematurely.

“Is something going on?” he asked, prepared for trouble.

“No, don't worry,” James said, but didn't make any motion to calm him down, draw him close and lose himself again. “He just wants you to go to work again.”

Q frowned, confused.

“It's midday,” he said, hoping he had that one right – the last time he looked at a clock, it was ten in the morning. “I'm not going anywhere,” he decided suddenly.

“You should,” Bond said before Q could slump back on him again. Q raised his eyebrows. Bond explained. “He wants to see if you leave me.”

This made Q even more confused, this time thinking of the worst – in this case leaving Bond, or, more probably, Bond leaving him, when he gets enough. But Bond quickly followed it up with: “Leave me now, injured, and go to work. He must know about us and wants to know what is more important for you, if me or your duty.”

Q finally understood. Mallory worried about them because they worked together. Sort of. He was testing him.

“You should go,” Bond repeated and, softly, added: “I'll be fine. He can't hold you for more than a couple of hours, and I've been through way worse than that,” he smiled crookedly. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Q mumbled looking down. “But I want to take care of you,” he said, stressing the word “want”.

“I know,” Bond gave him a small kiss. “But be a good boy and listen to your boss. The other boss,” he specified with a smirk. “Anyway, it will be getting harder every day to look at you like this and not be able to shag you into another century, so relieve my torture and get lost,” he kissed him again, this time longer, to show he didn't mean the “get lost” part that literally.

When he released him, Q put on the clothes scattered on the floor. He was still slightly unbalanced from the sudden change of atmosphere between them, mostly because James was still naked and watching his every move, but he knew that a ride on the tube will do him good.

He put on a sock and stood up completely dressed, sans his shoes, waiting in the hall. 

“The fact that you were sitting at home on your day off in the clothes you normally wear to work is simply outrageous,” Bond said with hidden humour in his tone. “I'll have to teach you how to dress to impress.”

“Weird, the way you went after me, it seemed like I already did,” Q was surprised by his own baldness, but liked it. Bond seemed pleasantly taken aback as well, but quickly retaliated.

“No, you undress to impress,” he smirked. “The rush I get when I see that ugly cardigan fly to the floor... there's nothing like it.”

Q smiled to hide the sudden stab of insecurity at the implication he heard in that sentence. He took his phone from the couch, said one last “bye” to James and left the flat, only briefly stopping to put his shoes on.

 

 

It wasn't that he was afraid of Bond leaving him. They weren't in a relationship yet after all. And if they were ever going to be, then it somehow already exceeded his expectations. He KNEW Bond was going to leave him. It wasn't scary, it wasn't heartbreaking, it just was. A harsh truth that came with every new relationship. And if James Bond was ever to settle down, it would sure as hell not be with a male head of the IT department of his workplace, not if that someone didn't look like an Adonys, which he very much didn't.

But he did want to keep him for at least as long as possible, enjoy all the thrills that came with a hot lover and a worthy partner, of his wits, of their banter, of the sex – and they did so little he wasn't even going to call it sex yet, and it was already better than he had in years. He wanted to make it last, obviously, but he already felt like it was slipping through his fingers.

Mallory wasn't helping either. He greeted him in with a speech about internal relationships and a number of forms they both have to fill out to ensure that their high positions will not be compromised, in the process making their starting... involvement into a big deal. Q had an irrational panic attack when thinking about James receiving the same treatment and backing off, deciding he wasn't worth the effort, maybe somehow thinking Q was trying to pull him into a relationship...

“Q, are you alright?” Eve's voice startled him from his musing and he turned to face her from his computer. He was sitting, which was slightly unusual in his case since he liked to be on his feet all the time and solve any problem he came across, but understandable given his current situation.

“Moneypenny,” he greeted her, a bit surprised to see her down in the Q Branch. “May I help you with anything?”

Eve was frowning. She sat down next to him, taking in his pale face and trembling hands.

“Q, if you're feeling sick, you should go home.”

Q snorted.

“And fail M's little test?”

“Oh,” she sat back with a “slapped hands” expression. “So you know.”

“James saw through him,” Q admitted, wondering if he would too, if he was himself at the time.

“Well, this would only serve him right,” Eve said. “You are still not in a shape to pull an eight hour shift.”

“I've been here two hours, Eve,” he reminded her.

“Exactly, and you are already looking on the verge of breaking down. Is it your wounds?”

He shook his head. “No. I mean, yeah, they hurt, but... I'm fine, it's just... nothing,” he shook his head again, trying to stomp down his doubts.

“Q,” she took his sweating hands into her elegant ones. Q looked at them and wondered how James would ever choose his good-for-nothing over soft palms and long fingers like she had. “You can tell me anything. Is it James? Because I can shoot him again.”

He laughed shortly, still not meeting her eyes.

“He didn't do anything. I'm just... I'm not good enough for him.”

She frowned even deeper, now disturbed by her friend's thought process.

“What in hell are you talking about?”

He shrugged.

“It's simple, isn't it? Why would he want to stay with me when he gets better? He can have the most beautiful women, and he always did. I'm not really up to the game.”

“Q, look at me,” she made him raise his head and meet her gaze. She had the most beautiful eyes, right after Bond's blue irises. “James took a knife for you. Four times. And a coma. I think he sees a lot more in you than you think.”

He still wasn't persuaded.

“You should talk to him. If you don't, you'll just keep building up these sand castles in your head and that never leads to any good.”

“I don't want to scare him away,” he mumbled.

“He's not a squirrel, Q, he can talk about feelings without running away. And you should go talk to him right now. Don't worry,” she didn't let him voice his arguments when he opened his mouth. “Who cares about M's stupid tests anyway. You'll be here for the next one.”

“The next one?” he frowned.

“Oh yeah,” Eve raised her eyebrows at him. “He has them all planned out. I think he wants to do one every three months on the both of you. Well, it doesn't really show much now, does it,” she explained after his confused stare. “You have been together for only a couple of days. But once you have a real tight relationship, he'll have to test out who you are loyal to more. Those will be the important tests, if you ask me.”

Q made a face. Who knows if he will even get the chance to test them on that.

“And, of course, there's the matter of your personal relationship,” she went on. Q didn't follow. He thought that was the point of their conversation all along. Eve noticed his confused expression and explained. “Well, your... specific relationship. He needs to know you won't make Bond a special case just because you're sleeping with him, and that you can handle being his boss. You have to be indifferent while you're on duty. But that goes without saying. Or...?” she added, uncertainly, when she saw him go pale.

Q was glad he was sitting down. While having all those doubts about their “involvement”, how he decided to call it for now, he absolutely forgot to address the biggest elephant in the room, which was the fact he was the absolute opposite of a boss when with James. How the hell is he supposed to be professional around him?

“I can't be his boss,” he uttered in quite horror.

“Tough luck, honey, you already are,” Eve reminded him. He raised his head to look at her.

“You get what kind of a relationship I have with him, right?” he asked tightly.

“I have an idea, yes,” she cocked her head.

“Elaborate?” he asked, knowing this would be extremely embarrassing but not as embarrassing as if he had to explain himself. On second thought, maybe he could have put it in a way that would be more acceptable for him. He realized that too late.

“I guess I always think of latex and whips when I think of you two...”

“Seriously?!” he choked on his breath. “No, I mean... whips – maybe, but not latex. No, what I meant is that he is... he is the boss in the relationship. It will be weird, reversing the roles when we're in work.”

Surprisingly, it felt kind of nice to say that Bond was the dominant one. He filed that away in his brain under “things you might like to explore in a safe setting” and moved on to the problem at hand.

“Well, you'll have to,” Eve said. “But don't worry, I trust you. You were always good at your job. And as much as James can be charming and sweet in the sac, he can be a real dick as well. That should make it easier.”

He couldn't help but chuckle at that. She smiled.

“Alright, glad I solved another problem,” she stood up, obviously proud of herself, and Q rolled his eyes. “Now take your coat and go home. Take a cab, I can't stand thinking of you going home in the tube and walking all the way from the station.”

“That cab would cost me what a month of tube does,” he argued weakly, but had to admit that walking that distance and possibly having to stand on the tube in his condition would be hell.

“Well, what else do you use your money for, anyway? You have no life outside MI6. Well, you do now.”

Q had to agree. He took his coat and found his phone. He was googling taxi companies when Eve bent down and planted a kiss on his cheek.

“I'm happy for you two,” she said, smiled and left.

 

Bond was standing by his fridge when he heard the bell. He went to open the door, first looking through the keyhole to make sure he wasn't in mortal danger, and when he only saw Q's mop of hair and glasses, he unlocked it and let the young boffin in.

“Hi,” Q said tiredly when he stepped in.

“Already here?” Bond asked and Q tensed minutely. It didn't escape Bond, just like his pale face and nervous twitch didn't.

“Eve made Mallory send me home. I thought...” he started, frowning, and James realized how it must have sounded. He reached out, wrapped his arm around Q's back, and pulled him closer to his chest.

“I want you here,” he said and kissed him. “I just expected M to keep you in longer.”

Q visibly breathed more freely after Bond's reassurance.

“I didn't feel great and Eve found out. It's not a big deal. I guess I need to start slower.”

James frowned.

“Is it the stomach?” his frown deepened. “Did I overwork you?”

“No, don't worry, it's... I'm just tired. It was a hard day, and all together... it got to me.”

“Are you going through subdrop? Is that it? I shouldn't have sent you to work...”

Q looked into Bond's face and for the first time in his life saw an actual concern. Not the kind he had when he was stabbed, the fear for Q's life, not anything urgent that showed that Bond was a good guy after all. This was something Q never thought he would see on him. Bond was regretting his own actions, visibly, blaming himself for Q's discomfort.

And here Q is, making up non-existent scenarios about how he will kick him out on the curb.

The door was still open, the breeze growing cold with impeding evening, and he hid his face in the crook of James' neck, rubbing his nose against his collar bone.

“Everything's fine,” he said, both to himself and Bond. “It's all in my head.”

Bond tensed before relaxing, and Q suspected he understood. He closed the door and then hugged him tighter before letting go and leading him to the living room, where they sat on the couch together and watched the tele for several hours. When the pizza they ordered arrived, Q went to open the door with Bond, who cast him a questioning look over the arm he had still wrapped around his shoulders. Q just smiled and hugged his waist, and they opened together to a delivery guy who seemed mildly surprised at the display, but Q suspected has seen much wilder things in his delivery career. Bond paid, Q took the pizza, the door closed, and Q was subject to that gaze again. He just shrugged.

“I think I like to show you off,” he brushed it under the table, but Bond smirked and pulled him closer.

“You want to show me off?” he asked, and then his mouth was an inch from Q's ear. “Do you want to show off what a good sub you are?”

Q blushed, the blood running down and up at the same time, and Bond's chest growled in a predatory laughter.

“Are you getting hard, my little slut?” he put the pizza box on a near by unpacked box of his possessions and backed Q until his back was to the wall. Q nodded, embarrassed but eager. Bond hummed contently and palmed him through the trousers. Q sucked in a breath. Every derogatory term Bond used hit him like a shock wave. He wasn't used to them, he wasn't used to the way Bond said them in his low rumble, and he wasn't used to Bond being like this, this affectionate but firm dom who caught onto every thread of Q's kinks, pulling them from him and using them against him, or maybe for him. All of that was giving him a rush he couldn't, and didn't want to, deny.

“Such shame I'm not in a mood to let you come,” James said in mock pity. Q frowned, wondering how long it will take until Bond is in the mood. Then, Bond opened his mouth to say something more, but got distracted by a thought. He looked at the pizza box, at Q again, considering.

“How do you feel about hand to mouth feeding?” he asked in a completely different tone, and Q struggled to catch up.

“Ehm... I never really tried it,” he answered after a while.

Five minutes later, they were set on the couch (Bond muttered something about wanting him on his knees when they get better, but now wanted him comfortable) and Q was licking tomato sauce from James' fingers. It was actually surprisingly non-sexual. Q's erection has subsided, and James was petting his hair with his other hand, the one hugging his shoulders. They were a picture of domesticity.

“James?” Q said when the pizza was gone.

“Hm?” he was half watching the comedy in the TV, half paying attention to just the presence of his Quartermaster.

“I'm not alright,” Q said softly. James turned to look at him. “I have issues, and I don't want them to ruin what I can have with you,” the boffin continued, not looking at him, but not trying to avoid his gaze. “I overthink and I'm anxious. I know those are the opposites of your character, but I hope you will understand me,” finally, he looked at him. Bond was listening patiently. “I know this is a means to an end. I don't want it to be, but I'm not stupid. But until you grow tired of me or we split for different reasons, I don't want to spend every day wondering if the fact that you didn't smile at me at breakfast means you don't want me anymore, or if a hand gesture was made in suppressed annoyance, or... you know. Could you maybe tell me when something like that happens? So I can relax at least a bit more? I know it's a strange request...”

“I'll do it,” Bond interrupted him softly. “But I also have my issues. I know what you need, and I'm not sure I can do it, not right away, but I'll try to make sure you know what you mean to me and when, if, that goes away. But Q, you should know that I can be extremely sappy when it comes to the people I love,” this got him a surprised look.

“Love?” Q asked with a lump in his throat. “When did that happen?”

Bond smiled, self aware. “Somewhere along the way.”

Q blinked a few times.

“You don't seem like the kind a guy who rushes into love,” he said after a few seconds. James had a sad smile on his face.

“Unfortunately, I'm just that kind of a guy. It's been a problem in the past.”

Q thought about it, about the women Bond slept with, about the ends those women met, and about how long Bond knew them. Sometimes it was just hours. Sometimes it was days. In one memorable part of his file, it was three days and a month long convalescence period and he left his duty for a woman.

“Well...” he said, laying his head on Bond's shoulder. “What do you say for a change we take it slow?”

Bond's smile turned affectionate again without Q seeing it, and he nodded.

“You know what? Let's.”


	8. Chapter 8

The bell rang and Q ran to open the door with a jam coated toast in his mouth and one shoe. He made a sound through hiss mouthful, greeting John who stepped into the apartment, and ran back into the kitchen to grab his keys and wallet. The clock above his door was showing it was ten past eight in the morning, the sun was finally coming up, and his shift was in fifty minutes, which was just enough to reach Vauxhall in John's old car, and he already regretted that he said yes when his friend offered that he'll be going on a conference near by and can take him. Any other day he'd be happy to catch up with him on the way to work, but today he would really prefer the quick tube ride. Cars in London were sometimes slower than bikes, mostly in the morning with half the city going to work.

“Why are you so stressed?” John asked him when he was helping him to get into a coat, and then took the toast out of his moth to allow him to answer. Q chewed it, swallowed, and found his other shoe.

“James is coming back today, I want to check on his flight and if everything is alright,” he said finally, putting on the offending shoe. When finally dressed, he took the toast from his friend and followed him out.

“And you have to do that from work?” John asked and Q realized what he said. John thought that James was a travel agent and Q himself was an IT department head in a forgettable firm near Vauxhall. He fished in his huge brain for an explanation.

“The internet connection is terrible here today,” he came up with and kicked his arse for how stupid that sounded. John wasn't fooled.

“I still don't get why you're so eager to get to work. Costa has free wifi.”

Q snapped.

“I'm missing him, OK? I want this day to go as quick as possible, finish work on time and run to meet him, and don't you dare making fun of me for that because I saw you do the same a bazillion times before!”

“OK, OK!” John raised his hands in mock surrender. They walked outside into the crisp morning air and aimed for the car. “And a bazillion is way over the roof. Maybe twice.”

The inside of the car was still warm from the drive to Q's house, so they relaxed and eased into the very busy traffic. Q tried to make his peace with the fact that he will be late, which didn't really matter to anyone in MI6 but him, since he desperately wanted to check on James. Eve called him three minutes before midnight to tell him that Bond has completed his mission and is on his way to the airport in a stolen car with three assassins on his tail, and then half an hour later with news about three dead assassins and a closing gate with Bond safely inside it. He was supposed to arrive at three pm and be home at four, so Q would leave work at half three to arrive before him and greet him with some food.

“So will we all hang out together sometimes?” John asked when they reached Thames.

“No,” Q said resolutely.

“Why not?”

“Because by hang out you mean have an orgy, and I'm not that eager to have your bits in my face.”

“I didn't mean an orgy!” the car stopped at red light. “Orgy requires a minimum of six participants.”

“What?”

“It goes masturbation, one on one, threesome, two couples swinging, two couples swinging with a looky-loo, orgy.”

Q looked at him like he was crazy.

“Don't be that judgemental, I'm just quoting Charlie here. And I have tried all of them.”

Q just shook his head in bemusement.

“Well, find someone else.”

“Cockblock,” John joked. “But to be honest, I don't know what I expected. You are still a fainting beauty.”

“Am not!”

“Are too! Look how long it took you to have sex with James!”

“I came a long way since then,” Q said and he couldn't help sounding smug, nor could he help the little smile with which he was looking out the window. John raised his eyebrows.

“Do tell,” he dared him, and Q wanted to do just that, tell him about all the times Bond took him to his limits and showed him that they're a bit further than he expected them to be, but he also wanted to keep those moments just to himself. So he just shrugged.

“Oh, come on, at least something! I tell you everything!” his friend was persistent. “I hope we're talking in civilized manner, right? He didn't piss on you or what...”

“Well...”

“NO!” John turned to him with a shocked expression. “YOU let him?! But you don't like watersports!”

Q was snickering now. It wasn't every day that he made his friend shocked at something he did in bed. Or in the shower, where they didn't have to clean it up after.

“I didn't use to,” he replied and John whistled. 

“He has you whipped!” he laughed and Q smirked even wider.

“Yes, regularly.”

They arrived at Vauxhall seven minutes past nine. Q thanked John for the ride and stepped out of the car, where the cold wind from the river hit him in the face. He didn't go to the main building, instead walked along the river until he reached a staircase leading under a tunnel and into his bunker, the new Q Branch. He liked it down here. It had the advantage of being hidden from bombs, it was easier to get large pieces of equipment there, like cars and the machines needed to fix those cars, it was away from prying eyes, annoying office mice and curious execs, and Q could control absolutely everything in it, from the power sources to everything that was attached to those power sources.

His employees were already there – their daily schedule was a bit more strict than his – and the station was running smoothly. The first thing he did was turn on his computer and bring up all the information on 007's latest mission in Cuba, with the tracking records from his smart blood and the flight tracker on the airline's web page.

In five minutes, he sat back, frustrated, richer with the knowledge that his flight has been delayed by three hours. Which meant that his day will be much longer than he expected. He sighed deeply and regretted that they were in such a rush they didn't stop at Costa to buy a cup of coffee.

He told himself he will not spend the day by worrying about Bond and checking up on him every half an hour, and then he missed lunch because he started his break doing just that and forgot himself. At four, Eve called and invited him for a drink after work, which he refused until she told him she already texted Bond to come to Royal when he arrives, so he agreed to meet her at half six, knowing that it shouldn't take long for James to be there after that.

Royal was packed at the time they arrived. They had to sit at one of the small tables located in the centre of the room, where Q naturally didn't feel very comfortable. He took out his phone, his defence against crowded places and discomfort of any sort.

“His plane landed twenty five minutes ago,” he said, his breath hitching in his chest as he tried not to get too excited. “Getting out of the plane is ten to fifteen minutes, then passport check, getting out of the airport... he might be getting into his car right now...”

“Oh Christ, Q, give it to me!” Eve snatched the phone from him, ignoring his yelp of protest, and replaced it with a pint glass of lager. “We haven't been out together in a month!I want to talk.”

He sighed, but she was right. He scarcely found any time for his friends nowadays, and he did regret it, it was just that James was keeping him very busy, MI6 was taking care of the rest of his time, and when he finally had a few hours for himself, he just wanted to sleep curled around his cats. True, James was there most of the time, too. But they had a new relationship. It was important for them to enjoy being together, because soon it could all go sour and they might want some space.

He's been telling this to himself for the past six months, preparing himself for the inevitable, and only now started to realize that six months is not a new relationship anymore. He's seen John go through that whole process in much less than half a year, sometimes twice. Even with Sarah it took maybe three months until they stopped acting like horny teenagers all the time and settled into a slower pace. James was different.

Of course, they had to go through an enormous amount of baggage first. The awkward silences when Q wasn't sure he wasn't clingy and James felt like they should act like tough men and go to their separate flats while they both just wanted to stay, the times when they couldn't figure out what even living together meant, since James has lived alone for at least the past twenty years and Q never lived with a man... and then the nights when James woke up searching for his gun, when he didn't speak to Q for a week after a mission, when he drank himself to delirium one day after he accidentally killed a teen who was a part of a hate group he was going after... and so many times Q fucked it up by being too self concious, when he didn't say anything, just let the depression gnaw at him until he recoiled and left to go home to his cats, until James or Eve found him and had a talk, reminding him it's all in his head. The cats were a problem, too. First Q had to go home every day to take care of them, then h realized he really didn't care much for this, so he contemplated giving them to Eve or John or whoever wanted them, until James took pity on him and let the two monsters into his flat. At that point, Q realized he's not going to pay a thousand pounds a month for a flat he never uses just in case James will kick him out, so he moved out completely and they've been living together for two months now.

Don't even let me get into the problems that came when that happened.

But that was life and those problems were the kind everyone in a relationship had (well... maybe not everyone, James DID kill people for a living). They figured everything out, and they were still struggling sometimes, but have made it much further than anyone expected (Eve told him that M ran out of tests at their three months mark and now was making them up as he went, not believing they could last any longer. They so far passed all the tests, even though they were getting seriously hard. It was MI6, after all, and choosing between world peace and the man you loved was not easy).

“So, I've heard of Bond's honeypot mission,” Eve said after a few minutes of chatting and Q tried to hide his wide smile behind a glass, gulping down the golden liquid.

“It wasn't a honeypot,” he argued when he put it down. “She wasn't the sole target of the mission.”

“Whatever,” Eve smirked. “He just left her hanging.”

“He's done that before,” Q tried to sound humble, but the truth was that he almost shouted in happiness and relief and victory at the screen when it happened. Bond was tracking down a drug magnate whose wife was the perfect way of getting to him, so naturally, Bond seduced her and brought her to his hotel room, where he spent exactly three minutes and seventeen seconds kissing her until she told him everything she knew about where her husband will be the next day, and he left her there, confused, unsatisfied, and completely unfucked.

“He's never done it when the time didn't press him,” Eve was still smirking. “Admit it, your boyfriend has a spine.”

He laughed and finally nodded his agreement.

“Yeah, OK, you're right,” he smiled widely. “But you know what happens when you let me talk about him!”

She rolled her eyes, knowing very well that Q could break into a rant about Bond any time, and she really didn't need to listen to how amazing James is in bed and how he can cook and plays with the cats and how everything Q ever dreamed of came true. Not that she wasn't happy for him. She just heard it too many times already.

“Can I see the time?” Q asked and she glared at him. He sighed.

“There's not gonna be any fun with you tonight, is it? Well, I mean... I'm sure Bond will have lots of fun with you.”

They both smirked. Eve found out a lot about them in the last months. Sometimes they hung around in their flat and it was hard for Q to not be himself when he was there, so after a few tense visits James just made him relax and explained to Eve why their Quartermaster isn't his sharp self when with him. She at first found it weird, even though she understood, then started being fascinated and even tried dipping into the BDSM pool herself, but stopped, telling them that she found the submissive partners adorable, but not exciting enough. Q, however, was a constant source of amusement for her, and their relationship as a whole was, quoting, “hot as fuck”.

“Sorry, I know I'm being terrible, I just... I really miss him,” he admitted, blushing slightly.

“Awww, of course you do!” she reached across the table and pinched his cheek, immediately having her hand swatted away by an irritated genius.

Being in the centre of the room, they had perfect view of every part of the bar, so when Bond finally arrived, they saw him from the second he appeared in the door. Q broke into a wide smile and James followed, and the technician didn't even realize he was standing up until they were close enough to touch and then they were kissing, passionately, in the middle of a busy bar.

A group of old biker guys with long beards and tattoos on their huge arms roared as if watching a football game, and Q with James broke apart with a laughter, waving at them with big smiles. Eve pulled them down to sit at their arses so they weren't so on display, but that was a very hard task, since the two of them just dived straight into each other's arms again, Bond with his hands in Q's hair, making Q sighing contently. It was very quickly turning into a scene, Eve could see it – she saw it so many times before, and she knew the two of them could get very physical very quickly and didn't mind company much. Well, Bond didn't, and Q was hardly ever in any state to refuse him anything.

“Boys!” she had to poke into them several times before they finally stopped kissing and looked at her, Q with glassy eyes and James with the hunger of a wolf. “Stop having sex in my favourite bar!”

“It's your fault you dragged him here when you knew I was coming,” James said in his low voice and Q whimpered at the sound of it, making James smile at him with affection.

“I am starting to see how that was a terrible idea,” Eve admitted. Then added: “Behave, both of you!”

“You have a beard,” Q said suddenly and James smirked at him. He had a rough couple of days behind him and hardly had the time to shave, and by the look on Q's face that was a good thing. Then Q's eyes travelled down his body, stopping at the ruffled clothing, a big overcoat that was hiding most of it, old trousers and big boots he stole one day when he was in a hectic situation. Q licked his lips when he saw them. Then he looked closer at the coat.

“What are you hiding?” he narrowed his eyes. “Are you hurt?”

“Not much,” Bond shrugged. “Most of the blood isn't mine, but I had to board the plane very quickly and this was all I could find.”

Q fumbled with the buttons and then opened the coat to find a stained shirt underneath. Even though James just said the blood wasn't his from the most part, he still had a lump in his throat at the look of it.

“I have just a scrape, Q, on my left ribs, doesn't even need stitches,” James assured him. Q bit his lip, obviously wanting to have a closer look, but James closed his coat again before anyone else could see, and kissed him again, this time slower.

“How I would love to be the filling in that sandwich...”

They turned their heads to stare at Eve.

“Oh, do I exist again?” she asked mockingly. James laughed.

“You know, as much as that is a very tempting image, I can't imagine Q reacting well to you I my bed.”

Q was trying not to think about how they already were in bed together.

“Don't get me wrong, it is a tempting image,” he said after his teeth unclenched. “But I think I would be so jealous I'd kill you.”

“That's so sweet,” Eve smiled like she was watching a particularly cute cat video.

“Yeah,” James said dreamily. “I imagine killing you would be sweet.”

Eve gave him a wide smile.

“Killing you sure was.”

They were smiling at each other with big, sweet smiles that were almost toxic, until Q sighed and moved his chair closer to James, laying a hand on his thigh.

“Can we go?” he asked. James looked at him and his smile turned honest. Q shuffled even closer. “I have food, first aid kit and a raging hard on.”

“All the attributes of a good boyfriend,” Bond said appreciatively. “Eve,” he nodded at her as a way of goodbye, and five minutes later they were walking out of the tavern, bracing against the cold evening wind.

Q glued himself to Bond's side and Bond hissed.

“That's the bad side, Q,” he explained, meaning his injury, but Q just smiled innocently.

“You said it's fine.”

Bond stared at him for a second and then Q's back hit the wall as Bond pressed him against one of the buildings they were passing, so hard his breath got knocked out of him for a second.

“You little shit,” Bond growled. Q hardened in his trousers. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Quite,” Q admitted and it earned him a sharp slap. Q could see a couple behind Bond, on their way to the tavern, stop and stare at them, considering interfering, and Q's stomach filled with warmth.

“Thank you, sir,” he said out loud so the couple could hear them, and answered Bond's questioning gaze with a motion of his eyes towards the two. James flicked his eyes to the side and stepped away from Q so he didn't look so threatening, and Q followed, smirking at the man of the couple who looked positively smitten by the show.

“You liked that, didn't you?” Bond asked, knowing very well that Q had a thing for public display. It wasn't a full blown exhibitionism, he wasn't keen on the idea of going to a club and openly have sex with Bond in front of people, but he loved showing himself as a sub to strangers, and loved showing off Bond. Bond, with all his non-existent modesty, relished in the knowledge that Q still found him so desirable he felt like the whole world should see him through his eyes, and he liked making Q blush in public – because as much as Q wanted it, he always felt ashamed for it.

After a few steps, Bond found what he was looking for. London was not the cleanest place on Earth, and outside the houses one could often find bags of rubbish waiting for morning collection. He found one of the blue bags with its throat tied with a string, torn it from the bag, spun Q around and tied his hands behind his back.

“What...?” Q started, surprised at the quick action. Bond tied the bag again so not to spill everything, even though this close to the river the chances were that by morning all the bags would be attacked and destroyed by the seagulls anyway.

“Walk on,” he encouraged Q, and the younger man closed his mouth, his cheeks turning pink as another group of people passed them by, all turning their heads after the tied man.

They walked past MI6 and into the underground, catching the tube. Bond had to help Q through the readers, touching in with his card and pushing him through. This time of the day, the tube was full, most of the population of London going home from work or out with friends, and when they boarded a train and Bond made Q kneel at his feet while he stood, even he had to admit this was probably one of the more bizarre things that people saw on the tube, but when it concerned the London Underground or London in general, stranger things have happened.

They arrived home forty minutes after leaving Eve. The flat was dark and slightly cold, because Q only turned the heating on when he came after work for a few hours and turned it off in the morning. The cats came to greet them, but were ignored. Bond slammed the door shut and pressed Q against the wall, kissing him roughly, releasing all the pent up energy he had, all the tension that was between them since he showed up in the door to Royal.

Q whimpered and bucked up his hips to rub his erection against James' crotch, currently separated by too many layers to feel if he was in the same state, but he knew he must be. During the walk home he calmed it down, but now he was ready to shoot – mostly because James didn't allow him to cum while he wasn't with him. It was one of the biggest challenges of their sexual life, because a two week long celibacy was giving Q such blue balls he could almost see the bruises (as opposed to the time he could ACTUALLY see the bruises on his balls, when James paddled them as a punishment and Q pissed himself from the pain). 

He didn't have to wait long for his release. Bond turned him over, pulled his trousers to his knees and told him to stay while he went into the bedroom and grabbed a bottle of lube and condoms. They usually didn't use them anymore, but right now Bond's wound was covered in other people's blood, and the danger was quite big that he already caught something, so condoms were the least he could do to protect Q from it. When he came back to the hall, he found Q with back arched and naked arse thrust in the air, gripping the hem of his coat, and his legs as far from each other as the trousers allowed.

Bond slapped the arse and squeezed the lube onto his fingers, thrusting three of them into his sub, making him cry out in pain and pleasure. It wasn't dangerous, James knew very well how much Q could take without harming him, and he knew that the younger man was masochistic enough to enjoy the burn his fingers gave him. He fingered him for several minutes, adding another finger, then quickly opened his coat and trousers, pulled his cock out, lubed himself up and thrust into Q, burying himself balls deep in the creamy arse.

Q screamed hoarsely and Bond groaned in satisfaction. He stayed still for a while, hoping he didn't misread the situation, and was glad when Q started fucking himself on his cock desperately, moaning in frustration when he didn't get as much friction as he wanted. That was a sign for Bond who gripped his hips and started hammering into him, his balls slapping into Q's balls. Embarrassingly soon, Bond felt his orgasm build up. He reached around Q's body and started jerking him off with his still slick hand, the other one gripping his throat, cutting off Q's air supply.

“You can come,” he gritted out and Q happily obliged, his eyes rolling into his skull as he came all over the wall. Bond followed him with a roar, the spasms of Q's hole milking him to the last drop.

“Fuck!”

They were both panting when it all finished. It must have been only five minutes of action and Bond already felt as if he ran through Bucharest. He slumped on Q, kissing his neck, and then his mouth when the sub turned his head.

“Shower?” Q asked when they calmed down a bit and James nodded thankfully. They undressed where they stood and went to the bathroom where Q started the shower and they both got in, using only water to clean them, since Bond's ribs were crossed with a long scrape that would be sensitive to soap. The water was hot and calming and was dragging them to sleep. Bond kept kissing Q as the blood was washing off of him, relishing in the feel of a warm body in his arms.

“You didn't fuck her,” Q whispered between kisses.

“I didn't fuck her,” Bond agreed and it was as close to “I love you” as they ever got, and as close as they needed to. They knew they loved each other. They didn't need sappy proclamations.

James went to bed first, waiting for Q to turn on the heating and feed the cats before they curled up together under the sheets.

“Tell me something,” Q asked.

“What?” Bond mumbled.

“I don't know, anything. I like when your accent slips.”

Bond smiled and started talking about the nice moments of his “trip”. Q found out long ago that when the agent was tired or affectionate, or sometimes angry, his Scottish origins would let themselves known through his speech, and he loved those moments. Soon, the cats joined them on the bed, curling at Q's chest and stomach, and Bond reached over him to pet Frosty while Q took care of Myrtle.

And as every night together, that was how they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! Well, not completely, I still have some angst and smut for these two, so hopefully in no time there will be a short sequel... but the main story is over. I hope you enjoyed it and I'm cooking something new for you already :)


End file.
